He has a small window that lets in sunlight, and allows him to look at what remains of the moon in the evenings. It is nice, in its own right, but he feels like a foreigner on earth now. The days are too bright, the sky too colorful, and the night is not dark enough, it is not as absolute as the ground below his feet anymore. It's strange to think that he misses the instability that space provided him.
The heating and cooling systems are surprisingly good. His cell is warm in the winter, and cool in the summer, and it doesn't make a sound. The temperature simply is, and he can only know that it is different from the outside temperature by the small window. There are palm trees outside, and if he listens, he can hear the waves of the ocean, so maybe it is the cooling system that works better than the heating. It snowed once, just the once, and he cried to see it. He never feels the chill that permeates space. The emptiness of the cold is something he remembers lies in the deepest layers of hell, but Slain has always found space to be the coldest place in existence. He also does not feel the heat and grit of Mar's sand against his skin.
He has access to books. He doesn't get to pick which books, but he does get books. He reads one of them, once. He then promptly throws it against the wall when he reads something about 'Rayleigh scattering'. It remains on the far side of the cell, and he never retrieves it, neither do the guards, and it remains there in perpetuity. They bring other books, but he doesn't touch them.
The food is better than anything he could have eaten on Mars, or even in one of the landing castles, or, it would be better, if he was eating it. At first, he did. He meekly ate what was given to him, expecting that each meal would be his last. As the time passes, day after day after week after month, he stops. The threat of execution which seemed inevitable, now seems like it will never come. He remembers, once, that his father had talked about how the Earth should abolish the death penalty. He hopes that isn't what happened, but he stops eating anyway. He will save them the trouble if they don't have the nerve for it. This works most of the time, but it is often in a moment of weakness, after weeks of not eating, that he grudgingly eats something, and regrets it. The process repeats again. The doctor that comes when the guards call him, threatens that if he doesn't eat, they'll put him on a drip, or that the guards will force him to eat. He doesn't listen to them, and it only strengthens his resolve.
The guards like to watch television down the hall in their office. They leave the door open, and he can hear their laughter, and the chatter of their shows. He can never make out what they're saying, but he doesn't care. He wishes he couldn't hear it at all. Mars did not have television like earth does. Maybe they will now, but they didn't before. Television was for important things: declarations of war, campaigns against humans, military victories, patriotism, and talking heads spewing hateful ramblings about Earth. It also only aired for a few hours a day, not like the 24 hour dribble that they have on earth. It's hard to decide which type of broadcast he hates more.
One of the guards prefers music to the television, but he only works part time, which means he is only around twice a week. Those are better days, because music is so much better than television. He doesn't even like the music that guard plays, but it's better than the television, and it's better than silence. He thinks one of the guards has noticed that he likes music, but he seems to have not said anything. Slaine imagines that he would be allowed a radio, if he asked or if the guard mentioned his thoughts. Neither of those things happen.
Some of the friendlier guards try to talk with him, but he ignores them most of the time. He doesn't want anything to do with them. The doctor also talks to him, asks questions, but he doesn't answer those either. That in no way means he doesn't use his voice. Some nights, he screams until he can't anymore, and he's horse for days after. It's an even better excuse not to speak.
Kaizuka visits every other Thursday. It is an ordeal. He rarely knows what day of the week it is, but he can always tell a Thursday from the others, by how the guards act. The mumble and grumble and they shuffle around more than normal. The first time, he doesn't know what is going on, and he expects that execution he is suppose to get, so he goes without a fuss. He fights after he realizes that is not what is going to happen, but there is only so much he can do.
Kaizuka is not good at talking, in the rational sense that most of what he says, means nothing. If Slaine asks him a question, Kaizuka answers, without actually answering. It is similar to when Kaizuka asks a question, and Slaine does not answer. Between Kaizuka's monotone statements, and Slaine's silence, they say about the same amount, which is to say that they really say nothing at all.
Kaizuka seems to have set aside a certain amount of time for his visits. They last exactly 30 minutes. The first time, this does not seem to be a problem. Kazuka carries a conversation with himself, and Slaine lets him. Slaine is under the assumption that first time, that this is a onetime thing. He imagines that Kaizuka has better things to be doing with his time. He is wrong in at least one of those assumptions, because the visit repeats. On the second time, Kaizuka doesn't have as much to say, though he talks no less. The third time, he brings a chess set, and arranges it between them. It does not go unnoticed that Slaine gets the dark pieces. Slaine lets Kaizuka play by himself, which, predictably, Kaizuka does.
The next day, there is a new book in his room about how to play chess, and above it is a small, folding chess board, with little plastic pieces. He contemplates choking himself with one of them -a pawn, of course, preferably white- but dismisses the thought, and goes back to sleep.
He sleeps a lot these days.
