"You'll be safe from De Killer in here. Enjoy the rest of your days, scum."
A half-hearted grunt in protest was all that the guard got for his efforts. The officer gave a final scoff before slamming the cell door closed, and as the row of bars slid shut, Matt Engarde saw his fame shattering behind them.
"…what a dump. Don't they know who I am?" the brunet growled, tossing his hair with a shake of his head. God, what a shithole. What happened to the days when celebrities got special treatment? Maybe if he made pretty eyes at some of the guards, they'd give him a cushier cell…
With a roll of scarred eyes, Matt found himself looking around the tiny living space…if it could even be called that. Did they ever clean the toilets here? How disgusting.
Though really, from the looks of it, the toilets weren't the only things around here that were never cleaned. The walls were never repainted -- actually, scratch that, it looked like they'd never even been painted in the first place. The stone was rough, scratchy, and littered with remnants of graffiti and what were probably bodily fluids. "Disgusting," grated the star, his gaze tracing along the faded drawings on the walls. Fuck, what crackhead did they leave in here for there to be a drawing of a deformed purple-and-blue bat on the ceiling?
Before Matt could continue his examination of the pseudo-room, the clanging sound of the door opening and shutting again disturbed him from his reverie. "A shared cell?" he couldn't help but mumble.
Disgusting.
He paid no attention to the man who was apparently his cellmate -- why should he, when he, Matt Engarde, was the only one that mattered? -- but soon discovered shoes in his line of vision through the carefully shampooed veil of brown in front of his face.
"Who the hell are you?" spat the celebrity without turning his face upwards. Whoever it was, they weren't worth the effort of moving.
Then a deep chuckle, frankly quite ominous in nature, snuck its way into Matt's ears; but it seemed to not just be his ears, it was the whole cell, the whole hall, the entire prison, echoing with resonant malice--
"Stand up."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
"Who the fuck do you--" the young man started indignantly.
"Stand. Up."
Well, Matt wasn't about to confront what he was sure was the product of 'roid-rage twice, so he just grumbled before standing, refusing to make eye contact with the muscled elder. But, that hardheadedness was sadly short lived, as the star's chin was caught between calloused fingers and young Engarde's gaze was forced onto the face of his cellmate.
The phrase "prison bitch" very briefly flitted through Matt's mind.
The look on the older man's face was the picture of smugness as he analyzed the brunet's ravaged face. "What a shame," lamented the gray-haired male, using his other hand to yank Engarde's bangs from his face to expose the self-inflicted scratches in all their horror. "Your face was perfect," he asserted, the smirk growing as he leaned in closer; Matt could smell the oil of his slicked-back hair. "Perfect enough for a Von Karma. But now do you know what it is?"
The Nickel Samurai turned his head against the other's grasp, but finding that to be the extent of his resistance, he could only rasp one word.
"Disgusting."