Gerald's eyes shifted left to right to left as he walked down the rec room, the ventilation fans on the high ceiling humming along without a care about his entrance. Inmates and guards alike stiffened at his presence as anyone would before someone in charge. He was in a bad mood, though not everyone could know: only the barest of frowns and a slightly furrowed brow hinted at a snarl and a scowl. [i]'Damn that Joshua,'[/i] he thought, as he cast his eyes downwards to consult the tactical display mounted on his forearm, set on finding that one exaggerated blip by the corner. [i]'And today was supposed to be a good day. Now it's ruined.'[/i]

After a fourth of a minute of walking, there, sitting on a bench: his quarry. A young man of a lean, thin build, effeminately so, with glasses balanced on top of a thin nose, forehead shadowed by long locks of dark brown hair. Gerald walked towards him purposefully, meeting poor Rilyn Naor's gaze with his own. His gait was even and confident, his posture superbly erect, his calm demeanor that of a Nazi SS Officer's. Coupled with his stereotypically Germanic look and the way he carried his voice, and, hell, pretty much everything else about him, he could very well have fit completely in Herr Hitler's tyrannical regime. 

Gerald Williamson halted before the man, and said decisively:

"Rilyn Naor, you have just lost all of your rights except for one, wherefrom you are to remain silent. Come with me."

It mattered not whether Rilyn consented, because the good sergeant immediately pulled him up, twisted him around, and cuffed him, right then and there. Giving him a sharp, merciless tug on the arm as a signal to follow, Gerald then began the return trip to Todd. Rilyn, being ever analytical, had no discernible facial expression and simply obeyed, his curiosity piqued.

Gerald should have been born all those decades ago in Austria.