Summary: Ever wonder what CR-S01's prison number meant? Well, here's my take.
Yeah, so, I was in the Philippines for the first couple weeks of the month, and I learned some new terms...
They'd said his name was Erhard Muller during the trial. At the time, Erhard had merely accepted it, knowing it and the proceedings would be the only leads to his now-lost past.
Now, however... he wished he'd questioned it. Why did he have such a strange name? As foreign to his ears as it was, it was somewhat familiar, meaning it probably really was his name. Still, he didn't know a word of German, didn't even have the slightest accent, so he could have questioned its origin. After all, he certainly hadn't told them his name. He couldn't remember anything.
He could have asked if he had any loved ones. That one free call had yet to be used, after all, and he was a bit curious why no one had come around to visit or watch the trial. Perhaps he should've even asked that first, because someone may have had an alibi waiting for him.
He could have asked for food or for water. It wasn't terribly much of an issue ― honestly, he felt a bit sick considering that he might have been responsible for an entire massacre ― but it could have made for a good distraction. Or, if nothing else, he could have asked what kinds of food he'd get to eat from now on.
He could have asked for playing cards. He could have asked if he could take a walk. He could have asked if he'd be let out of his cell at all outside of special occasions or specific circumstances.
He could've asked the man who led him to his cell for his name. Just so he'd know what to call the man in his mind, rather than simply "The Red-Haired Officer in Sunglasses". Erhard had a feeling he'd be back eventually, anyway.
He could have asked them to turn down the temperature in his cell, so he wasn't quite so cold. Or, failing that, asked for a blanket so he didn't get frostbite.
He could have asked for a better-fitting suit. His prison garb wasn't exactly tight, but apparently he'd never been fond of snug clothing. Perhaps he would feel better in something looser.
He could have asked why his eyes were red. He could have asked why he was guilty when the only things against him were his lack of memory (which couldn't be helped) and his state as the only apparent survivor of the massacre (which also couldn't be helped, considering).
He could have asked what year it was. What month it was. What day of the week it was. What the date was, period.
He could have asked for the time. He could have asked when his birthday was. He could have asked for whatever medical information they had about him on file, as they'd needed it to confirm his identity without him.
He could have asked why he was the only one imprisoned like this, alone in the literally freezing cold for 250 years. He hadn't seen any other cryogenic chamber cells, after all; he'd even overheard them mentioning that it was reserved for special cases.
He wished he'd asked how on earth he counted as one of those special cases. Not that he thought his alleged crime wasn't horrible, no; he just wondered why he wasn't getting normal life imprisonment, or even a death sentence. Others had done worse than he, as far as Erhard was aware (not that he remembered any specific examples anymore), yet he, of all people, had been chosen to live out his sentence as well-preserved as possible, it seemed.
He could have asked why a cell like this was built to begin with. He didn't see how it was any more humane than life imprisonment without parole was; in here, he was cut off from all contact (not that anyone seemed to care enough to do so) and forced to live in isolated boredom without reprieve. By the time he got out, he would probably die anyway, as he'd be utterly confused by the new world that came about while he was trapped here, and have absolutely no one on his side to help him adjust. Not to mention, what social skills he could still use would have long since deteriorated into nothingness by then, too, preventing him from making any friends that could assist at all.
He could've asked if anyone knew why he'd killed everyone. Didn't they need a motive to convict a man of first-degree murder? Or was the answer so obvious that it escaped him and his vanished recollection?
In fact, he could have asked why he couldn't remember anything at all. There was a sore spot on his shoulder, sure, and a bit of sensitivity in a spot on his head, but for all he knew he had Alzheimer's. Well, maybe not ― he still had his short term memory, and he had no difficulty remembering which words he meant to use or using them at all ― but still.
He could have asked about his prisoner number. What it was, and later, why he didn't have one yet. Oh, yes. He most definitely regretted that one.
For Erhard had been a good-natured prisoner, well-behaved, taking his punishment without question or complaint. He'd borne it for roughly a day ― or, at least, he thought it was; time was hard to keep track of in a cell ― before finally giving into his body's needs.
Erhard stood, shivering a bit as he was unused to the cold, and knocked on the door. Or, rather, pounded. "Sir?" he all but shouted into the door, knowing it would take a bit of volume to be heard. "Excuse me! Um..."
There was a loud whir, clatter, and hiss as the door opened to reveal a guard. There was another door beyond the guard, but Erhard wasn't in the mood to be terribly concerned by it for the moment.
"What is it?" grumbled the armed man in uniform.
"I, er... I need to use the restroom, and there aren't any facilities for it inside..." Not that his urine wouldn't freeze the instant it left him, anyway. Besides... he needed to do the other one, and he would prefer not to be stuck with a pile of frozen feces for 250 years, thank you.
The guard sighed and knelt, undoing the shackles that kept him from straying too far from the cell should he try to escape, but leaving the cuffs about his wrists alone. "Follow me," he beckoned, and without a second glance the man turned and headed for the door. Erhard stumbled a bit, disoriented by what seemed to him a rush of sudden heat, before following the guard out.
They passed through a few more sets of doors (which had never aggravated Erhard so much before now!) before turning a few corners, passing by a few more sets of guards along the way. Finally, the guard held open a door for him.
"Restroom. Here it is."
Erhard thanked the guard gratefully and went in to do his business. The bathroom was quite clean, and nearly back to the same temperature as his cell. Suddenly, he had a sinking feeling he and the custodian would be the only ones to ever enter the room.
He redid his pants (as much as his garb appeared to be a one-piece, quite thankfully, it wasn't) and cleaned his hands before exiting. He inwardly sighed as the guard asked him if he'd remembered to wash his hands. His memory was not that far gone, thank you very much.
As they walked back, the guard stopped to inform the other guards that he was escorting Prisoner CR-S01 back to his cell. On the way to, however, the guard had only referred to him as "this guy".
As Erhard, now dubbed CR-S01, was being re-shackled, he finally felt the need to ask. "When did I get a serial number?"
"Prisoners are numbered based on the first thing they ask in here and how many people ask before them. You asked to use the restroom and didn't have to wait in line."
A confused, followed by panicked look spread across Erhard's face as the guard closed the door. "W-wait! I don't understand― CR!?"
"CR's how they call it in the Philippines, kid. You're CR Shitter Number 01, now."
The guard didn't get to see Erhard's jaw drop behind the now-closed door.
Later, Erhard supposed he ought to be grateful he hadn't had to hear the guard's cackling from the other side, either.