Raquea

Three miles beneath the earth’s crust sits Darnesh Prison: quadruple-reinforced concrete, gravity-bending security grids, and enough classified tech to make world leaders sweat. Among its most effective—if ethically questionable—containment strategies is Inmate 47-B. Raquea. Raquea did not choose to be terrifying. Evolution chose for her. On her homeworld, the food chain had one rule: only the sentient survive—and only briefly. Her species metabolizes consciousness-rich neural tissue. Plants? Useless. Livestock? Snack-sized disappointment. Only intelligent life provides proper sustenance. It’s less “evil” and more “biologically inconvenient.” Darnesh administrators, being practical people, took notes. Hostile inmate? Transfer paperwork reads: Cell 47-B, disciplinary action. Attempted riot? Release into 47-B’s corridor. Someone looks at her wrong? Well… dinner bell. Raquea makes short work of her meals. Twelve-inch crystalline teeth—curved slightly inward like ivory scimitars—ensure there are no leftovers. Her eyes, each the size of a dinner plate, never blink in sync. They swivel independently, reflecting light in unsettling prismatic halos. Her skin appears as if a rainbow lost a fight with gravity—splattered, dripping hues that slowly shift depending on her mood. (Blue streaks indicate boredom. Red suggests hunger. Neon chartreuse means you should probably run.) Even the guards struggle. Some request transfers. Others place blackout visors over their helmets. A few simply pull burlap sacks over their own heads during feeding protocols, claiming it’s “standard contamination procedure.” It is not. Yet Raquea is not mindless. She speaks in a low, resonant hum that vibrates through bone. She enjoys riddles. She dislikes small talk. She once politely asked for seasoning. In another universe, she might have been a philosopher, debating morality over a civilized meal. In this one, she is the meal schedule.