Most people hate mornings. Most people hate the idea of starting another day in the same situation they've been in all of their lives. Most people despise seeing the surge of drones following the same routine, day in and day out.
Most people.
Not these people. These people are awake long before the lights flicker on at seven in the morning. Some of them stand by the door of their cell; some of them sit at their beds, counting down the time in their heads; some of them stretch out as best as they can on the floor or pace back and forth in their small quarters; some massage bruises and sores collected from the day before. Everyone waits.
Every day is a fight. Every fight survived is respect earned through fear. And fear is currency in the Big House.
The Boy hasn't slept the entire night. It didn't help that "the entire night" had only been the six hours since he had arrived. The heavy, deep breathing of his sleeping cellmate didn't ease his paranoid vigilance, either; the bulky prisoner had slept in a dark corner of the cell, sitting down squarely on some fixture near the wall. A constant dripping of water from the broken faucet over the sink had been a monotonous reminder of the lack of sleep and was the only sound in the entire room.
A dim overhead light weakly flashes through the single-story hallway, interrupting the hours of dreary solitude. It goes out again and the cells come alive.
Bedsprings groan miserably as the last of the prisoners move toward their doors. In the darkness, shuffling feet make their way towards the thick glass that faces the central hallway.
The lights flicker again and stayed on.
"Rise and shine! Another beautiful day, shitbags!"
The Warden saunters through the hallway with a steel rifle in his hand. The soles of his leather shoes creak on the concrete floor as he continues his morning soliloquy.
"Get up and out! Try any funny stuff and I'll shoot your balls right out from between your hairy legs."
Hushed laughter shows the inmates don't take the threat lightly: they have no doubt that the Warden will be true to his word if anyone tries to make a break for the outside; the only humor comes from the splendor that will befall the voluntary eunuch that tries it.
The Warden arrives at the first cell on the block and slowly faces the grins that shift from behind glass, eager for temporary freedom. His fingers loosely grip the antiqued rifle but no one is fooled: he is better with the old gun than any of the younger guards are with their more modern weapons. They've tried convincing him to trade in his rifle for a more modern gun nearly everyday, but he insists that nothing stops an escaping inmate like the "feel ova cold bullet lodged in his kneecap." The Warden's average height is somehow doubled by muscles that frame his figure and a swagger that oozes a violent confidence. Most people crumble before that much authority.
Most people.
"Left!"
The doors on the row opposite of the Boy's simultaneously open and the prisoners step forward soon afterward. They wait, impatiently, offensively, and lewdly, but not a step out of place.
"Out!"
They stagger out mischievously. The door has barely closed behind the two guards that accompany the first line when a second order rings out.
"Right!"
A slick click resounds through the hallway as the all of the doors are raised. All but one.
"Out!"
The parade starts down the hall in a perfect imitation of the first line. The prisoners empty out quickly as two armed guards prod them along with visual threats.
The butt of the rifle rested lazily across his chest as the Warden approaches the unopened cell.
"Well, sirree! It looks like we got ourselves a newcomer."
The Boy looks up from his seat on the bed and eyes the small group of guards standing around the Warden. They stare back with expressionless faces. He measures each one up and began discreetly flexing every muscle in his arms and legs, concentrating his breathing and measuring his jumping options from the mattress.
"HA HA!" The Warden doubles over in laughter. "The kid thinks we all got together to try'n mess him up!" He wipes a pretend tear from his eye as the cell door opens. "Don't be so full of yourself, Numbnuts. You should be more scared've your little buddy over there. We're goin' in after him."
Silence follows as nobody moves; the Boy fights an urge to turn around and look at whatever is sleeping behind him.
"Son of a — Look, kid, get up and out of our way or I swear I'll shoot you a new hole right where your sitting." The Boy stands deliberately and rigidly walks through the threshold of his cell. Two armed guards come to his side and instruct him to walk ahead. As he slowly trudges along, he examines the shady inside of the cell as the Warden sends in another guard and raises his rifle expectantly.
The edge of the metal cell wall obscures his view just as a dim red light flashes out from the dark corner. The Boy keeps his stare at the corner of his eye as he walks further and further away from the tense figure of the Warden, faintly lit by the red glow.
"Walk faster, punk."
BREAK
It slowly oozes around the metal and gathers at the tip, accumulating into a heavy mass before breaking off and freefalling through the air into more of its kind.
The Boy dips the spoon back into the gloop before him and repeats the dazzling display of gravity working on tasteless prison food.
Noise inundates the world around him: raucous laughter erupts from tables near and far, the sound of plastic on metal clanks rhythmically in the nearby food line, and whispers sail like arrows above the heads of the ravenous inmates. The thick feel of hatred and revenge fills all of the empty pockets of noise from the faces of bloodthirsty prisoners.
Through it all, the Boy looks at his spoon.
Drip.
"It only keeps you alive if you eat it."
The voice comes from the right on his until-recently empty table, but he refuses to acknowledge even its direction. He nods lightly and continues concentrating on the fall of the gray paste. The buzz of the feeding grounds resumes its normal play.
"The only way to win in this place is to stay alive."
Shouts come from a nearby table and fill the awkward silence of the Boy's deliberate preoccupation.
Amazingly, the voice is still perfectly audible through the sea of commotion. "The only way to live is eat."
The Boy drops the spoon and grits his teeth. "Then why don't you go ahead and eat the damn thin—"
His eyes stop him short.
The solid titanium in front of him smiles mockingly. "I would, but I don't have much of a stomach per say."
The Boy fumbles words across his mouth and struggles to regain mental balance.
The Android extends a hand completely composed of titanium and nods slightly. "I'm Cyberion. Called 'Cy' by the locals." The Boy reaches forward and grips the metallic hand before him: it's cold, lifeless, and immovable. "And you," he continues, "must be my cellmate."
The Boy retracts his hand carefully, and looks over the robot sitting next to him over from head to toe.
"My name is..." The Boy pauses and looks back to his food. "...call me Gray."
Lawless clamor buffers the conversation; like an imprisoned juxtaposition of size and shape, the giant and the boy sit rigidly at the lone table in noisy silence. Gray continues the idle play on his plate, but keeps an eye deadlocked on the Android beside him: the behemoth sits perfectly fixed at the table and stares with two translucent red eyes at the area straight ahead. He is completely covered by stainless steel; scattered patches of red light glowing behind glass panels on his body are the only signs of warm on his person.
He looks mechanically perfect, but at the same time, his voice carries the feel of a human. A quality hangs around him that softens the terror that his cold, sharp steel inspires.
"What are you in for?"
Cy's question hangs heavily in the air as Gray keeps playing with the slush before him. He answers after the hesitation.
"Murder."
Deep in the background, someone jumps up and starts yelling.
"Murder?"
Three guards run along a wall of the lunchroom towards a scuffle that started near the edge.
"Murder."
The guards arrive at the disturbance and whip out their clubs with the ferocity of predatory tigers. Steel strikes flesh as the clubs chop through the crowd.
"Just murder?"
Cards fly through the air, shouts erupt from the crowd, and the guards yell back as they apparently encounter resistance. A shout stands above the others. "I'll kill that cheating whore!"
"Multiple homicide."
A single shout rings out and immediate hush follows as a loud thud resounds through the cafeteria. Two guards bend down and reappeared facing the distant door. The third guard follows the other two as they slowly exit the room dragging someone behind them. Through the mess of prisoners that stands in the way, images of a blue-skinned goon flash.
Cy looks at the distant prisoner. "There goes The Magician..." he mutters. He returns his gaze to Gray, still captivated by the gray mass on his plate, and continues. "Where?"
"A park."
The Android throws a slightly double take, which looks a bit freakish on an automaton of his size. "Why in a park?"
Gray drops the spoon in the air and it plummets gracefully into the pile on the plate, splattering a mess onto the table; he turns fully to face Cy.
"Why not?"
He doesn't even wait for an answer. "Have you ever been to a park? They're filled with obnoxious, greedy kids running all over the place, screaming for the attention of their peers and mothers, who are too busy loudly gossiping about the slutty single mom next door to even care about the fact that the fruit of their promiscuous loins is about to fall fifteen feet off a jungle gym into solid concrete floor. Overblown, noisy, crowded, empty; those places are cesspools for the cancer of unworthiness that eats away at the world..."
The noise of the lunchroom rises to dull roar and normality resumes, but a silence continues between the two prisoners.
Gray mutters the rest.
"...And I really hate mimes."