07-04-2020, 10:04 PM
Ryker sat in the corner between a metal bunkbed and the wall. The bunks were previously claimed, and he had no interest in fighting anyone for a piss-stained mattress. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could win a fight in present conditions. One or two faces looked familiar, though he couldn’t place from where. The other inmates mostly ignored him, although he gave them no reason to draw attention. He wasn’t suicidal. The time passed mostly without incident excluding when someone came to stand square in front of him. He was a clean-shaven man with a tattoo of the grim reaper on his neck, sickle slicing up toward his eye. His foot nudged Ryker’s as if checking to see if he was alive. A long stare upward, and his milky gaze hovered on the assailant’s face.
“What is it? You like me mother fucker?” Ryker snarled.
The man tilted his head, then squat in front of him. He pushed a finger into Ryker’s cheek, which he allowed mostly because he was too tired to punch him out.
He replied with a jagged Russian accent, “I know who you are,” he said with a threat.
Ryker shrugged, “then you should know to leave me the fuck alone.” He honestly did not remember this guy. If they crossed paths before, then he was a nobody.
Grim reaper laughed, “you’re not in the best position to threaten anyone. The Syndicate won’t forget what you did to them.”
Ryker gave a flying fuck about the Syndicate. They could burn for all he cared.
Grim Reaper leaned closer. The heat of his disgusting breath snarled Ryker’s nose. Seriously. This asshole had no respect for personal space. Ryker was on the verge of punching him out when the banging on the bars turned everyone’s attention to the exit. Noise dulled as his name was called out.
Ryker wondered how long it would take before the Custody made this right.
Chest swelled, he climbed to his feet. Syndicate guy wasn’t moving out of the way despite his attempt to push past. His scrawny chest puffed up, thinking himself the big man of the room.
Ryker grumbled, grabbed his shoulders and thrust his knee to the groin. Fucker collapsed but nobody came to his rescue.
He left the cell to the sound of death threats (and worse) echoing behind him.
He walked with a slight limp as he entered the interrogation cell, chains clanging with the motion. He remembered the black man who waited for him, probably ten years his younger and a thousand years uglier. Oriena’s blood still dotted his face as he arranged it to stillness while the jailor anchored his chains to the table. His knuckles were slashed gruesome and broken open at the bends as he laid them forward.
Once the door closed them in, a snarl rumbled the back of his throat. “Well shit. We have a celebrity in Butryka. I assume you’re here to deliver Ascendancy’s apologies. You can tell his high and mighty Ass-fuckery, I accept them.”
“What is it? You like me mother fucker?” Ryker snarled.
The man tilted his head, then squat in front of him. He pushed a finger into Ryker’s cheek, which he allowed mostly because he was too tired to punch him out.
He replied with a jagged Russian accent, “I know who you are,” he said with a threat.
Ryker shrugged, “then you should know to leave me the fuck alone.” He honestly did not remember this guy. If they crossed paths before, then he was a nobody.
Grim reaper laughed, “you’re not in the best position to threaten anyone. The Syndicate won’t forget what you did to them.”
Ryker gave a flying fuck about the Syndicate. They could burn for all he cared.
Grim Reaper leaned closer. The heat of his disgusting breath snarled Ryker’s nose. Seriously. This asshole had no respect for personal space. Ryker was on the verge of punching him out when the banging on the bars turned everyone’s attention to the exit. Noise dulled as his name was called out.
Ryker wondered how long it would take before the Custody made this right.
Chest swelled, he climbed to his feet. Syndicate guy wasn’t moving out of the way despite his attempt to push past. His scrawny chest puffed up, thinking himself the big man of the room.
Ryker grumbled, grabbed his shoulders and thrust his knee to the groin. Fucker collapsed but nobody came to his rescue.
He left the cell to the sound of death threats (and worse) echoing behind him.
He walked with a slight limp as he entered the interrogation cell, chains clanging with the motion. He remembered the black man who waited for him, probably ten years his younger and a thousand years uglier. Oriena’s blood still dotted his face as he arranged it to stillness while the jailor anchored his chains to the table. His knuckles were slashed gruesome and broken open at the bends as he laid them forward.
Once the door closed them in, a snarl rumbled the back of his throat. “Well shit. We have a celebrity in Butryka. I assume you’re here to deliver Ascendancy’s apologies. You can tell his high and mighty Ass-fuckery, I accept them.”