2
[ruiner]
I like it here,
but it scares me to death.
There is nothing here.
There were no lights in the long, narrow room; the only illumination came from the rows upon rows of televisions that smothered the main wall like a honeycomb. Their fishbowl screens flickered spastically, each one displaying the black and white image of a different area within the extensive prison compound. A sparse handful of grey-uniformed men, each perched rigidly in their computer chairs, were scanning the array of surveillance televisions with weary, sun-starved eyes. Every minute or so, they would lift a stiff hand to press some combination of buttons on the complicated control panel before them, and one of the screens would blip soundlessly from one image to another. From the gate lodge, to the currently empty recreation Yard, to the mess hall, to individual cells; nothing escaped the prying eyes of the Slab security cameras.
Slipping the lighter back into the fold of his lightly armoured jacket, Glasgow raised his cigarette to his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and took a long, smooth draw. He kept a steady gaze locked on the wall of televisions in front of him, playing with the smoke in his mouth.
"Sir? Was there...something you wanted?"
Glasgow's eyes flicked over the younger man–one of the watchmen–staring up at him from one of the chairs. The staff member's eyes were trained directly on Glasgow's; never straying, even for a moment, to the two scars that ran from each corner of the warden's mouth almost to his ears. Never there. Knowingly, Glasgow smiled, and observed as the watchman strained, desperate to keep from glancing at the way Glasgow's muscles pulled and twitched under the ragged scars.
The warden wondered distantly which unnerved his underlings more; his permanently carved grin, or the rumours of his special "correctional methods." He took another drag on his cigarette.
Or maybe, he meandered, it was dear Bethsheva that really got their little hearts pumping.
He glanced down, then smiled approvingly at his lovely black hound. She was rooted to his heels, ears perked and sharp snout straight ahead. Ironically, the bitch was utterly blind, but she still locked her glassy white eyes on each of the watchmen whenever they spoke or coughed. Through the leather straps of her muzzle, the warden could see her tongue occasionally slip over still-bloody teeth. He knew she was waiting patiently for the signal, the snap of fingers that would release her to leap up and lock her gorgeous, powerful jaws around—
"...Sir?"
Pensively, the warden blew the smoke through his nose, exhaling just hard enough to sting the younger man's eyes. The watchman choked and coughed, blinking rapidly, but never daring to complain.
Glasgow sniffed. "It appears that a new prisoner was booked into Block 38 last week without my knowledge. You understand that I cannot have inmates coming and going without my supervision, Mr. Manells. Do you know where in 38 he's currently being detained?"
Manells nodded shortly and turned to the control board, chewing his lip slightly. "The only cell filled in Block 38 last week was...cell 1001, looks like."
"Ah yes. Roskar Viyaska's old cell, if I'm not mistaken." Glasgow said, leaning forward on the board as he sucked thoughtfully on his cigarette. "Let's have a look at the surveillance cameras, hm?"
The control panel flashed as the watchman's fingers danced over the various buttons. His gaze rose to the televisions, and he gestured to one that had blipped to the grayscale image of a small, square cell. Within those four iron corners, there was a man curled up in the cot. Glasgow cocked his head.
"Strange that the Jailor didn't think it pertinent to contact me before assigning this man a cell. What prisoner is this?"
Manells pressed a few keys, and an identification number flashed up on the screen: 098356-GX.
"Uh, it looks like it's prisoner 098—"
"That means nothing, Manells. Give me a name, please."
There were a few frantic moments as the watchman scrambled to punch more buttons–his lip-chewing was getting worse. A moment later, Glasgow watched as the identification number was replaced by a recognizable name.
Too recognizable, Glasgow realized with a twitch of his brow.
Manells quirked his head like he'd just read some obscure and interesting fact. "Marcus Fenix. Huh. No way."
The surveillance room went deathly still; Glasgow began to roll his cigarette forcefully between his fingers. Instantly, Bethsheva's low growl saturated the suddenly claustrophobic room, and Manells looked like he was going to gnaw right through his lip.
The glances of the other watchmen were ripped from their respective screens as a muffled shriek shattered the silence.
"I have Marcus Fenix in my prison?" Glasgow asked calmly, pressing the red-hot end of his cigarette deeper into the corner of Manells' eye.
"Y-yes!" Manells wailed.
"For six whole days, I've had Marcus Fenix in my prison, and no one thought for a second to inform me of this?"
Manells just screamed and clawed at the hands that held his head steady. Glasgow made a quaint, disappointed clicking sound and heaved the thrashing staff member into the control panel. Bethsheva danced eagerly on her haunches, muscles visibly straining, but her signal had not been given, and the animal never budged.
The warden turned to the watchman sitting beside Manells; the whites of his eyes gleamed with horror. "You. Could you kindly inform me of how long Fenix will be in our care?"
The second watchman wasted no time in attacking the keyboard, and a wall of cryptic information raced across his own screen.
"I-it's a forty-year sentence, sir. For treason and dereliction of duty."
White flashed unbidden through Glasgow's vision. For the barest of seconds, his hand curled into a fist, tight and volatile. Bethsheva's hackles rose, and the air crackled with danger once again. Instinctively, the warden groped around his jacket pocket, snatched out a tube of white pills, and swallowed a tiny handful. His pale face instantly slackened, and he permitted a deep breath to flow through his lungs.
"I see. Now tell me: is cell 1002 still occupied?"
"I...yes, sir. It seems it is." More keys were hammered, and another number flashed on-screen. "Prisoner 041509-JV."
Glasgow turned the digits over in his mind, their rhythm bouncing familiarly in his memory. He smiled. So Boston's managed to stay alive so far, has he? Good for him.
"Excellent, thank you." The warden glanced over his shoulder. "And how much longer until we wake our boys up for breakfast, Manells?"
Manells–crumpled into a pathetic heap on the floor now–just pawed at his blistering eye and whimpered. Another watchman glanced nervously down at the digital watch on his thin wrist.
"About twenty minutes, sir."
Stuffing the tube of pills back into his coat, Glasgow nodded and lit another cigarette.
"Excellent. Now, someone take Manells to the hospital, please. The lady and I need to pay Block 38 a short visit."