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Posted by Slate on Jan 27, 2010 2:36:34 GMT -6
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Jul 27, 2018 20:35:44 GMT -6
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One of the guards did not like Slate. It was a curious feeling, actually: something in his stomach. It flitted about at odd times, then hardened into a stone; the stone found its way to his face, as a small smile.
‘Satisfaction,’ he decided to call it.
It had been three days since the bombing; since he had woken up in a cell block, near some of the others who had been caught. Sebastian’s wife was the most disturbing: Slate was not quite sure what he would say to his mentor, the next time he saw him. Or to Tarin’s wife, for that matter. Or was Lee here, and they simply did not know it yet? It was very hard to get information. Dragon Speak’s gems had worn off; with them, the teenager’s amazing language capabilities. This was the first thing the guard had not liked: one day Slate had obeyed him promptly, and the next, he’d simply greeted the man’s barked orders with a tilted head. He looked, the Kabal’s Leader determined, rather like a dog. With the meaning drained from his words, his sharp orders really did sound like barks. The man had hit him. He had not liked that: it reminded him of the man in Colombia. So he had looked in the guard’s eyes, and said, “Woof.”
It seemed unfair that he was the one wearing the shock collar.
He knew, of course, that had been a very foolish thing to do. He was supposed to be staying alive; that was the most important thing. He should be keeping as low of a profile as he could. And yet... it had felt very good in his mouth, that ‘woof.’ It continued to feel good, every time the bruise on his face hurt. He had not expected the man to understand him, actually. Apparently the man’s English extended to animal sounds: clearly, his kindergarten teacher had done a fine job with him. Slate made a mental note to have her found and executed, when he was free again.
(That was a joke. You should laugh.)
His job that day had involved heavy lifting, rocks, and picks. He had no mental conception of what the work was supposed to accomplish: some kind of quarrying, perhaps? Construction? Busywork? He did not have much experience with manual labor. This became quickly evident, to all those around him. He did not need to understand Romanian to understand that the inmates to either side where trying to work as far away from him as they dared. Nonetheless, it was a simple task: one that even a two-and-a-half year old could do. The physics were quite fascinating, actually. The manner in which the angle of strike interacted with the resulting rock shrapnel (and, to a lesser degree of interest, with the splitting of the rock) were complex. He spent a considerable amount of time theorizing on the topic, as the other prisoners edged away. (He did not always hit the intended rock, per se, when he swung.)
For reasons he could not fathom, one of the guards—the same one who had hit him and shocked him, earlier—stopped to bark at him again. It was quite unwarranted: he was clearly throwing himself into this task whole-heartedly. The guard pointed at a rock in front of him, then at the ones to the side, which Slate had hit instead of it. These had been careful experiments on angling, mind you: it was clear from the man’s face that he thought them mistakes. Slate attempted to be diplomatic. He smiled, and nodded. The guard was quite insistent, though, and even the prisoners to either side of him were mumbling something that sounded like agreement. To be polite, he raised his pick, and—taking careful aim—brought it crashing down on the rock. At approximately an eighty degree angle, the obtuse side of which faced towards the guard.
The resulting rock fragment split open the man’s right eyebrow. It was entirely unexpected: Slate thought it would hit the man’s kneecap, or thereabouts. Considering the guard didn’t even seem to understand Slate experiments, the resulting shock was clearly unwarranted.
Today, he had apparently been assigned a new duty: a different guard handed him a mop, and a bucket, and pointed to a hallway floor. This, Slate understood. All was going quite well: the floor appeared to be getting cleaner, judging by the color the water was turning. Then the other guard appeared; the one who had hit him. He had stitches over his eye. (Stitches were what people used, sometimes, when they were not healers.) He turned the corner, and came face-to-face with a mopping Slate. He frowned. Then, slowly, he smiled: his hand reached for his remote. Those controlled the shock collars, Slate had learned from experience. The guard met his eyes, making sure Slate fully understood what was coming. (Slate was beginning to suspect that, for some reason, some of the guards thought he was mentally slow.) Baby blue eyes blinked at the man, meeting his gaze. Then Slate lifted his foot, and lightly kicked the bucket over: black water washed over both their shoes. He did not need to understand Romanian to understand cursing. The guard stabbed his finger at the remote.
Then they were both frying.
Satisfaction. Yes. He was quite sure that’s what this feeling was.
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