[ Joel grunts a quiet sound, blows a breath through too-dry lips. He lets his own gaze wander, following the guard that passes them by, and watches as he disappears past the corner to rile the rest of the inmates about. Christ, if he had even one of those bobby pins, he'd find a way out of this godforsaken place.
But the hierarchy, or whoever it is in charge of this mass imprisonment — oh they know what they're doing. They picked 'em all clean of their belongings, even the hidden ones, and stripped them down to formless rags. It's still early days yet but they feed them only enough to keep them alive and nothing more. Years of this and they might even turn into the material they need to forge objects.
Yeah. They know how to keep the prisoners in prison; they've got this all down to an art.
Dismissively: ]
Ain't nothin' to be sorry about.
[ It bristles something in him, the apologies, no matter how sincere and heartfelt they may be — but he manages to soften the edges of the words. It ain't on the kid, after all, to apologize for something so catastrophic, something so world-ending. ]
Well it's no paradise but things can always get worse.
no subject
But the hierarchy, or whoever it is in charge of this mass imprisonment — oh they know what they're doing. They picked 'em all clean of their belongings, even the hidden ones, and stripped them down to formless rags. It's still early days yet but they feed them only enough to keep them alive and nothing more. Years of this and they might even turn into the material they need to forge objects.
Yeah. They know how to keep the prisoners in prison; they've got this all down to an art.
Dismissively: ]
Ain't nothin' to be sorry about.
[ It bristles something in him, the apologies, no matter how sincere and heartfelt they may be — but he manages to soften the edges of the words. It ain't on the kid, after all, to apologize for something so catastrophic, something so world-ending. ]
Well it's no paradise but things can always get worse.