The guard's eyes flickered in annoyance as a cry of deep feminine anger – the third in five minutes – burst forth from the cell to her left. It sounded as though Inmate 6512 was about to start up again.
"You'd better let me see 'im, you rats in sheep's clothin', or there'll be consequences!" There was a thud on the door as the cell's occupant raised her leg and punctuated her frustration with the underside of her bare foot. "You can't keep me here away from him! He needs me!" The voice had turned tearful now, imploring. "If he's alone… he might get into trouble without me!"
The guard deigned to speak then, her shoulders not leaving the wall as she turned slightly more towards the source of the voice. "Don't be a fool, Quinzel. That boyfriend of yours needs you like I need a new pair of ballet slippers."
Now she was petulant. "He does need me! He's just… proud!"
The guard chuckled. "Lord, you're worse'n my sister. That guy's no good for you, woman! He's the most dangerous psycho this place has ever had the privilege of housing. Next to him, Jack the Ripper looks like Granny Smith!"
Out from the bars of the tiny window, a hand darted suddenly, miscalculating so that the guard was a good foot too far away to be concerned by it. "Don't you talk about my Puddin' like that! If he was here, he'd—"
"Exactly my point. Now pipe down. You're upsetting the natives." The guard leant over and banged the bars with the butt her of stungun, as though putting a period to the conversation.
"No, I ain't…" the voice muttered, trailing off as the feet shuffled back to their bunk. "Just wait 'til he comes for me, then you'll be sorry…"