When the buzzer went off, Rob held himself very still for a few moments. The pain in his lower back was always the worst right after waking up, but years of experience had taught him that so long as he didn't move, he could enjoy a few minutes of respite from that old companion. Old habits refused to let him go back to sleep, however, and before too long he rolled out of bed in a long-practiced manner, cautious of the rumbling threats of his lumbar vertebrae. Laying his blanket on the floor, he gingerly started his usual series of morning stretches.

The physical therapist who'd taught him the sequence had also stressed the importance of meditation and mental relaxation during the exercise, which he sometimes attempted. On this morning, however, anticipation preoccupied him. From the age of fourteen he'd spent his entire life working: respectable labor of the back and the hands, of which he'd always been extremely proud. The previous three years of perfect idle nothingness had induced a profound, black desperation, such that he'd jumped at the chance for a work assignment baldly billed as being "extremely dangerous". The promise of any new experience after such existential monotony and uselessness was so intoxicating that the vague assurances of danger were a faint, unconvincing echo to his overwhelming desire to do something productive again. Today was The Day.

The soft, sleepy rumble of Block C was broken eventually by the rolling cattle-call, which spread slowly up and down the corridors. Rob stuck his head under the sink tap, wrung out his shoulder-length hair, and groomed his mustache as best he could without a comb. He changed from his pajamas into a daily work uniform, and soon his door opened: "D-77732, it's time to eat. Follow me." [color=A2E2F5][i]How personal,[/i][/color] he thought, [color=A2E2F5][i]that the guards call us to breakfast individually.[/i][/color] He cautiously counted it as a positive sign. He smiled at the guard in response, but received no indication of any reaction through the helmet.

The canteen food was surprisingly adequate. He'd developed a bit of a taste for powdered eggs over his years of incarceration, and they'd never once had bacon at Menard Correctional Facility, from which he'd been transferred. He thought for a moment, and added the bacon to the list of positive things about this decision. Even if he wound up shoveling toxic waste today, at least he'd had some decent food.

The atmosphere in the canteen was surprisingly lively. Three years ago, he'd learned the hard way that "lively" and "friendly" are very different things in prison, so he spent breakfast trying to read the room and learn some personalities. The dominant conversation was a loud, spirited debate began over whether undercover cops have to admit to being cops when asked. He couldn't help but smile at the earnestness of the large, bald man ([color=A2E2F5][i]Ryan[/i][/color]), and watched with amusement as Ryan attempted to draft a random bystander into supporting his claims. It reminded him of the banter in his old shop, bringing up memories that made his chest go tight. He thought about joining in, but that was sentiment's influence. Instead, he kept his eye on the younger man who had been drawn into the odd conversation.


---------


[heaviside]: god only knows
[heaviside]: sooner than usual, isn't it? wonder if their attrition rates have been higher than usual lately
[heaviside]: can't be anything good
[heaviside]: but then, when is it ever anything good?