<span style="font-weight: bold">â€œWould you like to know more about God?â€</span><br/><br/>â€œSounds like slavery to me,â€ NG intoned after a short reflective pause. â€œBesides, dead people canâ€™t be sorry. So whatâ€™s the point in genocide if all you really want is an apology? No, waitâ€¦ Donâ€™t tell me. Save that one.â€ She recalled the half a sandwich she had with her, and couldnâ€™t in good faith just leave a pilot to suffer. â€œI know those shakes. Here.â€<br/><br/>A compartment to the side of the field whirred open and checked its contents before spinning shut again. â€œStim shakes need food and rest, not chatter. Didnâ€™t your god teach you that?â€ Half a peanut butter sandwich sat innocently inside. It was the only kind NG could stand, since sandwiches from the bay vending machines meant over processed meat and cheese otherwise.<br/><br/>NG had just wanted to see the prisoner, if she were completely honest with herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, sheâ€™d wondered what a terrorist looked like. Sheâ€™d never seen one before. Surely they would look differently from normal human beings. But this one looked just like a normal person. Even if he didnâ€™t talk much like one. And maybe that was how you told them apart. Or maybe if the guy had just wasted all the sense he had and started babbling in the come down. That wasnâ€™t so much her concern though. Nor was there anything she could have done anyway.<br/><br/>â€œGonna run the lock cycle test.â€ It gave a reason for her being in the area, and was on the regular maintenance list anyway. â€œDonâ€™t get too excited. Cells in use are exemptâ€¦ Iâ€™ll be back at the end of the shift. No oneâ€™ll be down here to feed you until after that, so you might as well take a nap.â€ She pushed herself away from the field and didnâ€™t turn out the lights, leaving that to the thoughtful, economical computer to decide.