The Prospects (Book 2): Nothing Poorer Than Gods by Daniel Halayko

of an Australian accent. “New fish?”
    “You recognize my perfume?”
    “First time in jail?”
    “Kind of. I ended up on the wrong side of the bars at a zoo once. Long story. But it’s a good story ‘cause it has monkeys in it.”
    The woman smiled a little. “What are you in for?”
    “I wish it was murder, but that dirtbag survived.”
    “You’re not real bright, are you?”
    Candilyn frowned. “I hear that so often I’m starting to believe it.”
    “When someone asked what you did, say you’re innocent. What’s your ‘p’?”
    “Uh, usually yellow?”
    “Your ‘p,’ your power. You’re headed to a metahuman prison, you must have one.”
    “I heal fast, but not real fast. The docs say the more I get hurt, the faster I’ll heal.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Candilyn Tiffany Wyznowski of the Wingrove Mobile Home Community Wyznowskis.”
    “Your real name. Who are you in your real costume?”
    “Zany.”
    “Appropriate. Aren’t you going to ask who I am?”
    “Nah, I’d rather call you Koala.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You talk like a koala in a cartoon.”
    She almost laughed. “I’m Portia.”
    “Is that your real name or …”
    “Both.”
    “What’s your ‘p’?”
    “I’ll show you.” The roar of passing motorcycles made Candilyn jump. Portia glanced out the mesh-covered window as she extended her handcuffed wrists to Candilyn. “Hold these”
    Candilyn held her cuffs. Portia squeezed her left hand with a series of fluid movements. The bones popped out of their joints. She slipped her limp dangling left hand out of the cuff and shook it. With a series of pops her hand regained its shape.
    “What did you just do?” asked Candilyn.
    “It’s called hyper-physiological control. I can make my body do anything. And I can make yours do anything with deft touches to the right spots.”
    “That’s hot.”
    Portia looked out the window. “Put your head in my lap.”
    Candilyn tensed. “Uh, not on a first date.”
    Portia tapped Candilyn’s shoulders. Her upper body went so limp she couldn’t resist when Portia grabbed her head. It was deep in Portia’s lap, with Portia curled over her, when the dry cracks of gunshots and the shrill tinkle of breaking glass surrounded the bus. Tires popped loudly. The van shook and turned sharply before it screeched to a stop.
    Portia curled her body around Candilyn. “Stay down.”
    Candilyn quit resisting until the gunfire stopped. The other prisoners screamed like teenagers at a horror movie. One was coherent enough to shout, “They killed the driver!”
    Someone knocked and shone a light through the back window. Portia put a raised thumb against the glass.
    Portia put her head up and spoke loudly without shouting. “Last stop. Everyone out.”
    The prisoners pushed and shoved their way to the exit. Candilyn didn’t move. The glass behind her chair shattered under a sledgehammer’s strike.
    “You know what’s going on, right?” said Candilyn. “‘Cause I don’t. All I know is my face is in your crotch and I hear fireworks.”
    “It’s called an escape. You can get up.”
    Candilyn followed Portia out of the back of the bus. Bearded bikers herded the prisoners into a rough crowd. The denim vests over their black leather jackets bore orange reflective letters that spelled VANDALS.
    Portia stepped into the intersection of four motorcycle headlights and spoke loudly without yelling. “Ladies, we have a lot of ground to cover and not much time to do it. Take your personal effects from the van, hop on a bike, and we’re out of here. We’ll get the cuffs and jumpsuits off later.”
    “Hold on,” shouted the woman with a mane. “Who the hell are you?”
    Portia unzipped her orange jumpsuit and lowered it to her waist, revealing a huge tattoo of a stylized spider that covered her back.
    “Yo,” said the dreadlocked woman. “That’s Portia. She’s a freakin’ mastermind.”
    “I know who she is,” said the horned woman.