Benjamin Boyo Raskille slid quietly down the line with the other prisoners, keeping his head up even if his gaze was directed downwards, keeping his attention on those closest to him even if he wasn't staring directly at them. Quiet as the tomb, face blank, he made his way to an empty seat at an unoccupied table from which he would be able to observe the others and from which nobody could approach without forewarning. Needless to say, he had never done time in such a strange institution before, and for the time being he was content to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. Boyo knew that for what he had been convicted of, there was no chance of freedom in his future, and the same almost certainly went for the others who sat in the room with him eating the same bland, unidentifiable slop. There was no reason to antagonize or underestimate any of them, not the young, not the women, not the talkative, not a one. If they were there it was because they were capable of being just as low down as they came. Boyo kept his eyes roving over the others, searching for signs of potential danger in their posture, expressions ad body language, as well as hoping to spot tattooing that might let him know about the affiliations of the other prisoners. The plastic spork continued to delve into the semi-solid sludge and shovel it into his mouth, what teeth he had left working at the occasional chunks to render them ready for digestion, and all the while he kept eye-balling the others with the same lack of expression that he almost always wore. It was one of the first things he had learned in prior terms of incarceration, that mask of stoic, total indifference to anything and anyone. To let another see you feel anything but anger or aggression was to give them an insight into the inner workings of your mind, to let them see what you cared about; in other words, it gave them a means to manipulate you, or a way to hurt you, or reason to think that you would make for easy prey. He ate quickly, finishing before any of the others, and placed his tray in the receptacle next to a guard who watched him with open contempt and suspicion. It was as though the guard was hoping Boyo would make an error that would give the guard a excuse to punish him. Benjamin returned the spork to its designated place as well, making a show of doing so slowly and without any sign of trying to slip it out of sight while staring dead into the guard's dark eyes the whole time unblinkingly, wondering if he would look away. The guard did not look away, nor did he blink. Instead he tightened his grip on his baton, his jaw clenching as he did so. A hint of a mirthless smile played across Boyo's lips and Boyo returned to his seat, still quiet, posture erect and uncompromising, moving at a casual pace that suggested neither hostility nor anxiety, and in fact he felt neither. The calm he felt bordered dangerously on boredom. He hoped something would happen soon to alleviate both.