6.x (Interlude; Canary)

Paige’s jaw ached, a constant reminder of the muzzle that kept her silent. Restraints bound her, heavy chains and metal strips, a cruel irony given her lack of enhanced strength or escape artistry. She was trussed up, not for safety, but as a performance of guilt. Unable to speak, she couldn’t even tidy her vibrant yellow hair, a symbol of her powers, now a marker of her supposed derangement.

The courtroom was a suffocating theater. “All rise,” the bailiff droned, and Paige stumbled to her feet, her lawyer’s hand on her chains the only thing keeping her upright.

“Not guilty,” the jury declared on the count of attempted murder. A sliver of relief.

“Guilty,” on aggravated assault with a parahuman ability.

“Guilty,” on sexual assault with a parahuman ability.

Sexual assault. The words were a cold brand, twisting the truth into something ugly and unrecognizable.

Judge Regan’s voice cut through the haze. Paige, at twenty-three, was a first-time offender, a “rogue” in the PRT’s classification—neither hero nor villain, but a parahuman using their abilities for personal gain. This, he noted, was in her favor. But the nature of her crime, committed with a power, demanded a harsh response. The legal system, still grappling with parahuman criminality, had to adapt, to be “proactive and inventive.”

Standard detention was deemed impractical, the risk of escape or a repeat offense too high. And so, the sentence: indefinite incarceration in the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center.

The Birdcage.

The courtroom erupted, a cacophony of cheers and jeers, but Paige was frozen, the word echoing in her mind—a life sentence among monsters, some literally so. She would have screamed, fought, but the restraints held her fast. Two guards hauled her away, a third preparing a tranquilizer. Panic seized her, spiraling into a chaotic haze as the syringe plunged into her neck.

■

Paige awoke to a few precious seconds of oblivion before the horrifying reality crashed back. She was drenched, immobilized by containment foam, the world a blur of harsh light and dampness. The room lurched—a truck, she realized, heading towards her inescapable fate. She had to get free, or the confinement would drive her mad.

“The little bird’s awake,” a voice commented, tinged with a Boston accent.

Two others were in the truck with her: an Asian girl around her age, similarly trapped in foam, and a towering Asian man encased in even more foam and a metal cage.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the girl said, her pale blue eyes piercing. She instructed Paige to lean, to create leverage. A desperate plan, a gamble against a terrifying unknown. Paige, fearing the consequences of refusal, obeyed.

With a jolt, the girl used her teeth to grip the strap of Paige’s mask. It took several agonizing attempts, but finally, the mask came free, leaving Paige gasping, drool trailing from her mouth.

“Two qweshionsh,” the girl mumbled, the mask still in her teeth. “Youh poweh?”

“I sing,” Paige replied, her voice rusty. “It makes people feel good, susceptible to instructions.”

“Teh collah?”

“Tranquilizers if I sing or raise my voice.”

The girl, Bakuda, instructed Paige to take the mask. “Drop that and I’ll turn you inside out,” she threatened. Then, addressing the man, “Lung. Wake up. I need your power. Heat the metal.”

Lung, a convicted villain, grumbled but complied. Paige winced at the heat radiating from the mask, the smell of burning metal filling the air. Bakuda, with manic determination, used her teeth to pry the hot metal strips from the mask, then impaled them in her shoulder, a gruesome self-modification.

“What did you do to get sent here?” Paige asked.

“Body count was almost at fifty,” Bakuda grinned, a horrifying sight with her damaged lips. She spoke of a bomb, not just powerful, but capable of crippling the nation’s infrastructure. “Lung told me to do it,” she added. “Man in charge.”

Paige confessed her own crime: telling her ex to “go fuck himself,” a command made potent by her lingering power, leading to his self-inflicted injury and her subsequent arrest.

Bakuda, cackling, began to work on Paige’s collar, using the metal strips as makeshift tools. Lung, when asked, confirmed their destination: the Birdcage.

Bakuda, a self-proclaimed bomb expert, explained her plan: a small bomb to disorient the guards, allowing Paige to use her power. A futile hope, as a giant metal claw reached into the truck, dragging Lung out first, then Paige.

■

They were in a vast underground bunker, the Birdcage’s entrance. A CGI face appeared on a monitor—Dragon, the world’s best tinker, the prison’s designer. Her voice, filtered but still carrying a Newfoundland accent, detailed each prisoner’s designation and escape probability.

Lung: Brute 4-9, Blaster 2-6, fire and heat. Escape chance: .000041%.

Bakuda: Tinker 6, bomb specialty. Escape chance: .000126%.

Canary (Paige): Master 8. Escape chance: .000025%.

“I followed your trial,” Dragon said to Paige. “You don’t deserve to be here. I even wrote a letter… I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

The sympathy was a punch to the gut. But Dragon had a job to do. She assigned Paige to cell block E, under the protection of Lustrum, a radical feminist. “Play along,” Dragon advised, “and she’ll keep you safest.”

Dragon explained the prison’s design: a hollowed-out mountain, lined with ceramic and dormant containment foam, suspended in a vacuum, patrolled by anti-grav drones. Escape was virtually impossible. “The elevators go one way,” she stressed. “Down.”

Paige was deposited into an elevator, descending into the abyss.

■

Lung, in cell block W, sought out Bakuda in cell block C, navigating the prison’s internal politics. He paid the guards with cigarettes, a tribute to the cell block leaders.

Bakuda was ecstatic, marveling at the prison’s design. “It’s like being inside the fucking Mona Lisa of architecture,” she raved.

Lung, however, was not interested in architecture. He recounted his past prison experience, the four paths to survival: join a gang, be someone’s bitch, kill, or be seen as mad. He chose the latter two.

“You insulted me,” he growled at Bakuda. “You failed me.”

Bakuda, realizing the danger, threatened to breach the cell, a suicidal act that would seal them both in. But Lung was too fast. He was going to kill her.