Participants:
| Scene Title | Arbeit Macht Frei |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Through foolish persistence in the face of adversity, Django manages to make another friend. |
| Date | March 18, 2009 |
Moab Federal Penitentiary - Yard
Lunchtime! The one time of day when the prisoners of Moab get to… have lunch.
Given the relative lack of prisoners in Moab, especially when you divide that into something like half to account for gender separation, the prison's cafeteria is generally pretty sparsely populated. Plenty of empty seats and tables, though in general most of the inmates tend to stick to small groups. Makes it seem a little less desolate.
Today, Satoru isn't one of those people, though on some days he may be. No, while he isn't sitting too far away from the nearest cluster of fellow prisoners, Toru nonetheless has a nice little berth of empty chairs around him. And he's giving off some pretty obvious 'leave me alone' body language as he chews through today's meal of ground mush with a side of mush with mush topping. Very exciting, these prison meals.
Dear Diary,
I hate lunch time. Everybody gets hungry eventually, and everybody has to eat occasionally, but in the outside world, it's usually an enjoyable experience. In prison, though, in this great cement box they're all trapped in, meal times are a miserable affair. It's different, here, than the last prison Django was in, but not necessarily any better. The cafeteria is nearly empty, having been built to accomodate a much larger population than is currently present, and serves to remind a man that he's locked in here with the few, the proud, and the ugly. The food is dismal, being barely palatable, meant more to keep the prisoners healthy, so they can stay in here for a good, long time, than making them happy. All that Django can think of while he's eating is how much he misses real food.
With his tray and flavourless (if he's lucky, anyway) nutrition, the Russky paces idly around the edge of the cafeteria, looking for familiar faces to sit with. Not that there are many of those, having been in here for less than a week. He does, however, spot the familiar back of someone's head that he's seen retreating from him on a couple of occasions, usually on poor terms. This, of course, is no deterrant.
A tray hits the table directly opposite Satoru, and Django invites himself into the seat, expression mild. The bandages are gone from his head now, but high on his cheek is an inky blotch from the punch he took. The taller man sits, adjusts his chair, and sqaures the tray in front of him, but doesn't touch his "food" yet. Instead, he stares across the table at the irritable Asian boy. "Yo," is all he says.
Satoru is not ugly. Proud, certainly, but also inhumanly attractive. It's almost disconcerting. Or at least, that's the only reason he can figure that Django is still coming after him even after taking a punch to the face. He's in the middle of taking a spoonful of what he keeps trying to tell himself is something more appealing than it really is when the Russian sits down across from him; he pauses briefly in that action, but ultimately completes the bite and, after chewing a moment, swallows. Dramatically.
"I already told you I ain't into that shit, dawg." He shakes his head, at least not starting with violence today. With eating comes a certain level of docility. "I know most of the other guys ain't as good lookin' as me but I'm sure you'll find someone here who's into butt piracy, aight? Leave me the hell alone, why don'tcha."
Waiting patiently for Satoru to acknowledge his presence, Django continues to ignore his own tray. The response to his greeting causes him to scowl faintly, and he shakes his head. "You still pissed about that thing in the yard the other day?" He hesitates for a moment, then picks up his spoon. "I meant what I said, you know. I mean, not the part you punched me for," he quickly corrects, "but after that. You know, the "I'm sorry" bit. I wasn't tryin' to make you mad or nothin', I thought we was just havin' fun."
The spoon is loaded with something at random, the Russky not even looking at his tray (it's easier if you don't look at it), and it hovers in front of him for a moment. "Didn't think you'd take it so hard, aight? I don't want no enemies, and you don't need no trouble, so maybe we can try this again?" And then the spoon finds its way into his mouth.
In response, Satoru stabs at his food a bit with his spoon, sulkily and silently. He eats a few more spoonfuls of food, actually thinking his verbal answer over before responding with instant anger. "I don't believe that shit," he finally says, although he's calm about it. "I know what kinda guy you are. You're just tryin' to get me to trust you or somethin' like that." Shrugging, he pushes his tray forward a bit, leaning back in his chair.
"But, I meant what I said before too. I don't really give a damn about whatever your problems are, all I care about is getting through this shit as painlessly as possible. If you wanna make buddybuddy, you can start by not fucking with me, not getting up in my shit and not dissin' the ethnicity thing I got goin' on. Dig?"
Django chews silently for a long moment, not looking at Satoru. This isn't how it was supposed to work out. He'd had it all planned in his head, and it went a lot better in his imagination. Best laid plans, and all that. Then he, too, puts down his spoon and rests his elbows on the table, chin propped on laced fingers. "You ain't exactly given me a lot to work with. I don't know where your parents are from. That's shit you gotta tell folks if you want 'em to know. So you ain't Chinese, aight, that's a start. Can we maybe give the first part another go and get the weird ambiguity out of the way?" Big word for this guy, he might need to go lie down.
Unlacing his fingers, he extends a hand to Satoru, and does his best to smile amiably. "Hi, I'm Django. It's nice to meet you."
Satoru looks down at the hand silently for a moment, spoon dangling from his own hand, propped up on elbow. He almost reaches forward to grab it… but ultimately just scoops up another spoonful of slop and noms on it contemplatively. Setting the spoon down once he's done, he wipes his face with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. "Yeah, that's not gonna work for me." He shakes his head. "First off, it don't matter to you where my parents're from 'cause you'll just use it to make fun of me with a different set of insults."
With a shrug, he sets about to digging at his food a bit more, stirring things around moreso than eating them. "You gimme a couple good reasons why I should give you the time of day and I'll think it over."
Well, isn't that just peachy. Looking disappointed, Django lets his hand drop, palm-down on the table in front of him, and leans back in his seat. This is not going well at all. It's not going badly, per se, but not how he had intended. Maybe it's not worth the effort after all? The Russky sighs, and folds his arms. "Honestly? You probably don't need any more friends, seem to be doin' alright for yourself in here. Since January, you said? And you still seem pretty sane."
A pause, as he collects his thoughts, seeming vaguely uncomfortable with what he's about to say. "I do need a friend or two, though," he pitches his voice low, keeping the conversation quiet and personal. Just between us guys, like. "Gotta have someone to talk to or whatever to keep my mind of, shit, everything. 'Cause way I see it, my future ain't so bright. I got nothin' on the outside, so even if they do let me go, I got nowhere to go. No life to return to, and not much chance of makin' a new one. But what I hear from other guys in here, not likely they gonna let me go. So it basically boils down to either, I die in this shithole box, or I get free and die in a gutter somewhere." He blinks a couple of times, scrubs the back of his hand across his eyes. If he'd realized he was gonna get this close to tears, he would have stopped before he risked ruining his image. Fuckin' emotions.
"You know what, nevermind. You're right, you don't need me all up in your shit." Shoving his chair back from the table, he stands up abruptly and gathers his tray. "Sorry I fuckin' bothered you. Have a nice damn day."
Toru listens through Django's explanation with a steadily decreasing level of interest, having rather hoped for a reason that would be beneficial to him on a personal level. Once it becomes clear there isn't going to be one, he almost stops listening to the Russian entirely until he realizes that the guy is getting all emotional on him. Aw, hell. Pushing his tray off to the side, he lifts his hand in a 'come here' gesture, waving back at the seat Django had just vacated. "Jesus Christ, sit back down why don'tcha. You're freakin' embarassin' me!"
He waits to see whether the man is going to sit or not, but either way, he continues, "Come on, dude, you want me to be your freakin' mentor or somethin'? How the hell old are you, anyway?" An eyebrow is raised. "Cause I'm pretty sure you're older'n me. You got a record and a crappy life and you're still all soft? You just said the other day you know as how you gotta depend on yourself cause nobody'll help you out. God, guys see you gettin' all emotional they're gonna think you're my girlfriend or somethin'."
As he turns to walk off, Satoru gestures to him, and Django hesitates, torn between just being done with this, and maybe getting somewhere. Or potentially gettin' punched again. He finally makes a decision and sits back down, scowling at himself this time. "You ain't the only one fuckin' embarassed. Shit. Feel like a damn schoolboy." For the moment, he can't bring himself to look at the younger inmate, eyes still rimmed with red. "I know what I said, I fuckin' know. But I'm just a guy, y'know? I done some bad shit, but I ain't a "hardened criminal" or anything like that. I don't wanna rot in this god damned hole. Been in prison once before, but it was only eighteen months for knockin' over a liquor store."
The man coughs, scuffs at his nose, and shifts in his seat a little, looking down at his hands. "I didn't choose this. I didn't fuckin' choose any of this shit. Started stealin' when I was a kid 'cause my dad was useless, and we was gonna be tossed out on the street. Then I get these fuckin' powers, suddenly I'm a crook and a freak. If I believed in God, I'd think he hated my damn guts. But religion don't pay the bills."
Satoru shakes his head when Django mentions feeling like a schoolboy, waving a hand dismissively. "Whatever, dude. Forget it." He pulls his tray back over to stir at it some more, but at least seems in a slightly more talkative mood now. "Most people grow up like that, they don't really care s'much about shit. I mean, y'know, that's what I figure. I had it pretty aight and shit, I don't care. Shrinks said I had an 'empathy problem' or whatever but I really just figured that like you said, I gotta look out for myself and I ain't got time to waste on carin' about stuff's happened in the past."
"And you're not a freak," he adds, in between bites. "Just 'cause you're better than the normals. They don't like the idea of gettin' kicked down a notch. Suddenly it ain't enough bein' rich, old and white, you know? The higher ups don't like that so they figure they gotta find a way to make us look bad when they're the ones going obsolete."
Django's food is forgotten entirely, his little bout of emotional distress having killed his appetite. And he finds himself really hoping that no one else saw it. Bad enough that Satoru saw it. "Douchebags, every one of 'em," he agrees with a dour twist to his mouth. "History fuckin' repeating itself. White man's always gotta have someone to put down. Surprised they don't have 'Arbeit Macht Frei' over the damn gate." Then a thought strikes him, and he furrows his brow.
"…they don't, right? I didn't actually see the gate. Cocksuckers had me knocked the fuck out when they brought me in." He blows out a breath and leans back in his seat again, running both hands through his hair. "Man. They asked me if I was a damn terrorist the first day, had a whole bunch of screwball questions didn't make no sense. Now, though, I almost wish I was a terrorist. Least then I'd have a legitimate reason to be in here. Maybe have someone to get me out, too. Comrades in arms or some shit." Casting a look at his tray, he considers trying to finish it, then declines again. He'll probably regret it later, but he's just not hungry right now.
"You know what they got me for? Besides bein' "Evolved", I mean. Robbing some lady's apartment. Rich bitch, had shit in her pad I couldn't afford if I sold all my damn organs. She wouldn't have missed a fuckin' dime of it. I could'a lived for months on just her fuckin' silverware. How the hell do people get off livin' like that when we got kids dying in the damn streets 'cause they can't afford to eat? Almost makes it worth blowin' somethin' the fuck up."
"Like I even fucking noticed," Toru replies to the question of the gate. "I didn't really care much by the time we got here. I don't know any damn German anyway." Stab at food. Boy has a healthy appetite, that's one thing you can say about him, though he's just about finished with his meal by now. "I think they pretty much figured everyone's a terrorist. I got brought in with one of the first groups and I guess some of those guys were with some org or another, I dunno."
"I mean shit, at least you did something to get in here." Hard to tell if that's a dig or not. "I'm in here for goddamn breaking curfew. Couple cops wanted to question me, I told 'em to go to hell, they got violent so I defended myself. Next thing y'know…" He shrugs, leans back and gestures to his surroundings. "I got a new zipcode. It's the friggin' Republicans, man. Makin' everything so the white man stays on top and everyone else gets crushed. Like I said. What do they care if folks're suffering as long as they have a cushy bottom line, yo?"
"That's harsh," says Django, pushing his tray towards Satoru in offer. If he's not gonna eat it, someone ought to. "Guess I don't have as much to bitch about as I thought." Not that it'll stop him from continuing to do so. With hands folded behind his head (causing him to wince briefly), he stares up at the ceiling and chews his lower lip. "Maybe somethin'll change on the outside. Drop the fuckin' Linderman Act or whatever, terrorists'll bomb the right politician to Timbuktu, and they'll let us out." Then he snorts, as if amused by his own words. "Nice to dream, anyway."
Abruptly, he resumes his forward posture, leaning on the table again, and begins idly drumming his fingers on the surface of it. "Hey, you know any way I can get some cigarettes or somethin' in here?" Hello, subject change. It's nice to see you today. "I ain't smoked in almost two weeks, and I'm dyin' for a fix."
Once he's done with his own meal, Toru looks up at Django's offer but lifts a hand to reject it. "Naw man, I gotta drive." He does, however, lift the full tray and set it on top of his empty tray, setting his used spoon on it and pushing them both aside. Saving some space on the table, anyway. "Well, s'like I said before, I figure sooner or later some ACLU group or somethin' will hear about what's goin' on and get us out, y'know? They'll have commercials with that crying lady about how a nickel a day will save an imprisoned Evolved kid and everything'll be hunky dory."
He leans back in his chair again, hooking his arms over the chair's back, and looks around the room. Eyes settling on Boxer the Russian Giant, he gestures over thattaway. "I hear that guy there can get ahold of stuff. You ask me, he's some kind of retard, but a couple people insist that he's your guy." He shakes his head, as if disappointed by this fact. "His name's Boxer or something. I'm pretty sure he doesn't speak English. I mean, he'll talk to you in English, but I dunno if he knows what he's saying, right?"
Following the gesture, Django sets his eyes on Boxer, nodding faintly. He'd been meaning to talk to that one anyway. Fellow Russky, kindred spirits and all that. Or something. He shrugs to Satoru. "Looks harmless, either way. Y'know, other than being huge. Oughta have a word with him at some point, see if he can hook me up." Then he laughs, and affects a rather convincing, heavy Russian accent. "Do not worry, I am handle him okay. Ya mago razgivite pa russki izick."
Resting his chin on one fist, he casually looks around the room at large, not at anything in particular. "You been here a lot longer than me. Anyone else I should look out for? Trouble makers, contacts, guys what tell a good story?"
An eyebrow is raised at the Russian, but Satoru brushes it off. Hey, if he can have a wacky secret foreign language, so can Django. Probably. "I mostly been keepin' to myself 'cept lately," he admits, with a shrug. "I mean, that Boxer guy's good for a laugh but he's also really really irritating. I guess if you can speak his language it might help." He nods slowly. "You know Shard, that rapper guy? He's in here. I hear he registered and everything but they still locked him up for being 'evolved', so that's bull. I'm not really sure what he did, though, so."
He runs a hand through his hair idly, letting out a quiet breath, and hums thoughtfully to himself. Idly he picks up his spoon and starts picking at the remains of Django's meal, out of boredom moreso than anything else. "If you do manage to get him to get you some smokes, lemme know, will ya? I'm going nuts here. I mean shit, you can't even get fucking Pepsi here and it's the goddamn choice of a new generation." A pause, there, as he chews on some more of that food. "Anyway, the guys you have to avoid usually get dragged downstairs so you're mostly good. Just don't piss people off."
A mocking salute and wry half-grin are the answer to Satoru's advice. "Don't worry, I can handle not pissing people off." Ha. Ah ha ha. Ahem, anyway. Pushing his chair back for the second time, though less forcefully than the last, he stands up and stretches, arms over his head. Then he looks over at the clock on the wall. "Aw, fuck yeah," he cheers with no lack of sarcasm in his tone. "Almost recess time. I am fuckin' excited as shit." Hands are stuffed into his pockets, and he cocks his head in the direction of the door. "C'mon, let's go get some fresh air. The smell in here is killer."
Toru looks up at Django with an eyebrow raised, vaguely amused smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You are way too into this, I think, dude." But nonetheless he stabs at the food on the tray one last time before standing up himself. "And sure I'll clean up your mess for ya seein' as how we're pals now, apparently," he adds, with no lack of sarcasm in his tone. Grabbing the stacked tray pile, he heads over to the trash cans to dump out the remaining food, and takes the trays up to the place where the trays go. And then turns to follow Djang over to the door to the yard. "You didn't answer my question before, brah. How old're you? If I'm gonna be playin' nursemaid I wanna know what I'm gonna be expected to handle."
The Russky waits silently for Satoru to take care of the trays and come back before heading for the door, a bemused little smirk on his face. The questions makes him turn around again, walking backwards for a few steps down the aisle between tables. "Hmm? Oh, twenty-five. Old enough to know better, and too young to give a shit. And I never asked you to change my diapers or read me a bedtime story, so chill, aight? I just get bored sittin' in the corner by myself. Gotta have someone to talk to, y'know?" He trips over a chair, just barely manages to catch himself on the edge of the table before he hits the ground, and decides this is a sign that he should face forward and watch where's walking.
No one said he was graceful.
Satoru shrugs, shaking his head. "Man, whatever. Just don't come to me when your bottle's empty, dude." He follows behind Django idly, one hand in his pocket, the other swaying at his side. And when the older man trips over the chair.. he snorts up a stifled laugh that actually forces him to cough a couple of times. … Nobody ever said he was tactful. "Fuckin' twenty-five. Jeez, you're practically my granddad. You're the one askin' me for advice, that's just fucked up, yo." He shakes his head balefully and continues for the door in silence for a moment, until such a time as the door is opened - not too much later - and the population allowed out to pasture.
"Don't piss anyone off and don't let anyone think you're a pussy. That had to have been the case at your old place too, yo."
 March 18th: Jailhouse Prom Queen |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 March 18th: Girls Who Wear Glasses |