>>CHAPTER THREE::

Aruis Ex

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

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There's never enough shade on the roof and for that I'm glad. There's never enough light inside where you spend most of the day. The windows are tall and monstrous but they're facing north and south. It's as if they hadn't planned on installing windows at all until they began to run short on concrete.

"Fuck it. Just throw some glass in those gaps or something."

The sky is clear and seems brighter than normal. Maybe it's just the fact that now I'm only able to see it for an hour a day. I'm not sure. But the sunlight warms my blood and that's usually enough of an energy boost to keep me running for the rest of the day.

I sit myself down on an old set of wooden bleachers across from the basketball court, just next to the weights. The boards are warped from being out during the rainy season and small chips of wood stick out from the edges. I take one between two fingers and pry it off, rolling the brittle timber between them. A few other inmates are sitting on the far end as well. One of them peers over their heads and gives me a quick once-over. He's a wallaby. Maybe a few inches taller than me but it's difficult to tell. I recognize him from C Block because one of the other inmates mopping floors with me a few days back pointed him out.

"That's Roger," coughed the weasel. "He'll slit your fucking throat."

Then we went back to mopping.

Even in the lowest ranks of society there's some kind of social order. Here, Roger was big, but he wasn't the only one. He had his gang and he had some sway with the rest of the inmates but he was far from being without competition. There were the fascists to deal with, the panthers from D Block, and the anarchists, who for reasons I had yet to figure out actually had a leader of sorts. Roger's was the remnants of some large urban gang that had stirred up a little too much trouble with the authorities. The members who got sent here grouped up and just started another turf war like they had outside. It made you wonder if they were really after the power or if they just enjoyed the conflict.

I did my best to avoid them, just like everyone else. There's was an exclusive club. You couldn't just hop in and get a pat on the back and a cigarette. If you wanted favors or you wanted to be left alone, often times you had to play politics. They had their sphere of influence, and if you ever found yourself inside of it, well, sometimes it's better to be a footstool than a doormat.

The alarm chimes. It's loud enough to do ear damage and it means that recreation time is up. I stand and pat the dust and bits of bench off of my coveralls and follow the rest of the inmates inside, careful to keep my distance.

"You've got quite a cell here, Leon," he whistles, sucking in a large breath only to shoot a plume of smoke in my direction. "Not a lot of color, though. Kind of dreary, if you ask me."

He's lying on my bed, one leg cocked up and folded over the other, a wing behind his head and another tapping the end on his cigarette into an empty soda can he must have brought with him. He tips his sunglasses up onto his forehead and his eyes creep up my body without any hesitation.

"That jumpsuit really suits that body of yours. Have you been working out?"

"I can't work out," I tell him, leaning up against the far wall. "Gang territory."

Falco grunts and nods his head. He's wearing a deep red jacket over a deep blue t-shirt and his jeans look dirty as he sits up and plants his feet over the side of the bed. He moves the soda can/ash tray between his boots and taps the smoldering end of his cigarette into the opening as he speaks. "I told you that you had to make them notice you. Did you try joining a fascist group?"

There's a guard posted at each end of the block. One patrols up and down the block as well. Security cameras cover every angle of every door in every room.

"Beat up a child molester yet?"

I can't even sneeze without somebody telling me to keep the noise down.

"Just don't end up as somebody's bitch, okay? They might sweet-talk you with all of this 'lubby-dubby' bullshit but in the end all they're interested in is the sex. It's a really hollow relationship."

"I'm sure you'd know all about that."

He grins and presses the whole of his cigarette into the can. "Well, that's what my bitch always told me, at least." Picking up his little ashtray he stands and makes his way over to me. I'm waiting for a guard to walk by or one of the inmates to see but there's nobody. Even the cell door is open.

Maybe he's some kind of apparition, or some hallucination. He stops a few feet away from me and his smell drifts past my nostrils. I can see the well-defined curves of his chest and stomach and a small tuft of feathers is sticking up from the neck of his t-shirt. My eyes lock onto his and he just smiles at me as if we had just swapped confessionals or something. I hear the air conditioning kick in but his tall frame is blocking the cold from me. For the first time in a long time I feel comfortably warm.

"Well, I guess I have to split," he says, tipping his sunglasses forward. I spot my reflection in the lenses and he must notice me studying myself through them. "Always watching out for ya, babe," he smirks, patting my cheek and then making his way towards the open cell door. He grips the bars on either side and leans his body forward, scanning side to side briefly before he catches me staring at him.

I hug my arms across my chest and try to play it off.

"Don't blink," he tells me. "Or you might miss everything." He points towards the mirror over my sink and by the time I'm looking into it he's vanished, the cell door slamming shut behind him.