Night shift. God, how I hate it. Eight hours fighting against my natural urge to fall asleep while checking the cells every thirty minutes in between another boring game of cards. I’d swear Eddie Jones is looking at my cards when I have to make my rounds, but fair is fair – I’ve done that to him as well.
I glance at the clock on the wall. The corridor is quiet enough that I can hear it tick-tocking eight feet away – either that, or it’s a bloody noisy thing. Eleven-twenty-nine p.m….time to check on the prisoners – oh, I’m sorry, the patients. Prisoners, patients – they’re all orcs. Fomorians. The mutated. Whatever you want to call them.
The above snippet is from the opening paragraph of Night Shift, the first in this collection of short stories and artwork that are set in a British-run detention centre for Fomorians/orcs somewhere in northern Connacht.