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spine.
    Retaliation erupted on instinct and he rammed into the hybrid beside him. The backlash from the closest tentacle crushed him to his knees.
    A quick skim of his hands across the floor captured the shiny bit. He rocked onto his fists and the balls of his feet to steady himself as he scanned for his next move.
    Senses active, he reached out to the darkness of the tunnels around him—sound, taste, and smell, all sharp. All ready. The manacles clipped his powers, but little quelled his ingrained instincts.
    Someone was there. Whoever it was didn’t belong in this dungeon. The sweet scent held no wrapper of the hate and despair that saturated the air of Xavier’s compound. The innocence was reminiscent of his previous evening’s nocturnal visitor.
    The hybrid pulled hard on Turen’s chains. With the momentum, he headbutted it in the underbelly of the plasma head, far too close for comfort to the gnashing rows of teeth.
    The reciprocating swipe sent him airborne. He landed on his side several feet down the hallway, closer to the stairwell, closer to his cellblock and farther from the scent.
    With a quick shake of his head, he cleared his vision, and righted himself before he launched at the second creature. It earned him more abuse but advanced his position another dozen feet.
    Rows of triangular teeth and saliva flashed before his face. The reek of decayed fish stung in his nostrils as the creature hovered above him.
    “Cease.” The command rang from the end of the hallway.
    Three of Xavier’s human guards emerged from an intersecting hallway thirty feet away, fully armed. Four civilians walked between them, three-foot-square wooden crates poised over each of their shoulders, their legs bent and their backs bowed to ease their burdens.
    A mass of gray and gloss sped down the hall. The barbed end of one tentacle smashed through one of the crates. Small plastic bags showered over the man beneath the crate to pile on the floor. White dust floated slowly, covering wood splinters and plastic in a fresh snowfall of powder. A tentacle wrapped around the neck of the human pack mule and dragged him into Turen’s tunnel.
    “Get back, you son of a bitch.” The rifle tip’s poke didn’t prod the hybrid into retreat.
    Turen braced himself, the chain between him and the remaining hybrid pulled taut. The creature attempted to override his programming to join his partner. The testosterone and fear secreted by the men beckoned the hybrid closer with an offering of flesh.
    The guard let loose a round at the attacking hybrid’s tentacle. He succeeded only in enraging the creature.
    With blurring speed, the tentacle lifted the victim by the neck. A second tentacle skewered him through the stomach and dragged him beneath the head’s gyrating teeth. With the efficiency of a wood chipper, the teeth carved through flesh and bone. The harsh grind and slosh of teeth worked against the skull and echoed amidst the screams and whimpers of the other transport personnel.
    The men shoved unsuccessfully at the guards to escape, causing more fervor in the second hybrid. Turen wrapped the chains around his fists, barely able to hold back the creature.
    Several rounds of bullets pumped into the creature feasting. A few minutes later, surrounded by a dusting of shell casings, the hybrid lay inert on the floor. The digital colors blinked yellow on the hybrid’s computer panels, but no organic parts moved.
    From experience, Turen knew it was down, not dead. The second creature swiveled as if gauging the odds against the armed guards. A blanket of red and orange lights beeped on its computer sensor, but it remained immobile, self-preservation intact, though spittle dripped from its teeth.
    The hacking sound of the men vomiting remained the only noise in the hallway.
    “Get moving.” The guard aimed the gun at the hybrid beside Turen and motioned for them to continue. He tapped his headset, weapon still trained to the hybrid’s head while they