Oppressively grey days slide by, any trace of color obliterated by darkness. The thinner the air, the harder it is to breathe it. The harsher the reality, the sweeter the dreams of escape. The newcomers, fresh meat for the grinders keeps pouring in. The smell of fear is always present, an acrid, metallic taste that chokes them slowly. The realization that freedom has been supplanted by the eternal routine, swagger and tattoos barely hiding the resigned air in most of them. Days of plotting against each other, whispers on the wind, of who, when and for how much. The first hit is always free, and they always come back for more. Anything to feel free again. The thin air, the smell of fresh sweat on the gym floor. The beat of one hand against another. The slide of skin against skin in the showers. A stolen moment of life in the halls of death.
There's Shirley with her sad-sweet whispers and the slow days leading towards her end. Claire with her brusque walk and short temper, pacing the floors waiting for the next opportunity to get something, anything she wants. The members of the clergy with their vain hopes of curing and helping the sinners.
There's a group lead by Said praying their daily prayers, hoping to bring the system down with their faith. The guards with their uniforms and weapons, fearing and hoping to instill fear into the prisoners.
O'Reilly plotting and scheming, hid in the shadows with his brother in tow. One dark , the other light held together by necessity and love. Beecher and Keller, forever reaching for each other only to fall back on their mutual distrust. Love turning to hate in the stifling air of the prison. Hell on earth, or just limbo. Welcome to Oz.