![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Simon Says - Chapter 2: The Fragrance of Dark Coffee
"Hey, Simon? I don't mean to drudge up bad memories..."
After dinner, Simon had insisted on accompanying Athena home. She'd teased him about being overprotective, but the truth was that he simply didn't want to return alone to his empty new apartment. He wondered if it would be appropriate to invite her to come over, to stay up late watching Jack Hammer movies and eating junk food, the way they did back when he would babysit her.
"But?"
"But you did have friends, didn't you? The way you talk about the other convicts sometimes…"
"Trust is a rare and precious thing in the clink. I had many allies and acquaintances, but few friends."
"Meaning you did have some."
"Yes," he conceded.
"So… you should tell me about that! I don't just want to hear about the things that are bad!"
Or rather, she wanted to hear that it wasn't all bad. But then, he couldn't blame her, and indeed it hadn't all been terrible. It was not long after arriving that he made his first (human) friend...
CHAPTER TWO: THE FRAGRANCE OF DARK COFFEE
Blackquill spent the next few days in a sort of fugue state, barely registering the world around him. Later on he would hardly remember anything from that time, but amidst the blur of new faces and the tedium of his new prison routine Taka stood out in sharp relief.
His friend was not so well-trained then and would follow Simon around relentlessly, constantly demanding food and attention. Not that Simon minded; tending to Taka's needs was far more satisfying than carrying out the mindless chores he was assigned, and the bird's aggression towards perceived threats gave him an excuse to avoid human contact. Out in the yard, while the other prisoners exercised or socialized, Blackquill sat off to the side, watching Taka fly above or feeding him small scraps of meat he'd smuggled from his own lunch. That day it was a piece of bologna, which Taka bit at a couple of times and then let fall to the ground, staring up at Simon with piercing offense.
"Don't look at me. I agree with you," said Simon, and beckoned the hawk onto his knee for petting. For awhile, he simply murmured sweet nothings to the bird, but suddenly, he found himself saying, "You're the last being in this world that still depends on me. I wonder, should I thank you or resent you?"
"The fledgling sings a sad song."
Blackquill hadn't even noticed the man approaching. Outside of Debeste, the other convicts tended to avoid him, and he supposed it was for that reason that he'd let his guard down. Still, he felt ashamed; hadn't Dr. Cykes taught him better than that? He had not forgotten all of her lessons, however, and he took a moment to size up the stranger, careful to present an air of indifference. From the look of him, the man was in poor health; far too thin, a bit shaky, and wearing a massive visor that likely didn't afford him much in the way of eyesight.
Deeming him not a physical threat, Simon snorted and went back to preening his bird. "Begone. My companion and I are busy."
The other prisoner, however, did not miss a beat. "Is that any way to greet your neighbor?"
Simon didn't look up again, but he didn't need to; the strands of orange cat fur were obvious on the man's uniform. "Hmph. So you're the one who lives in that cell? I thought you'd been devoured by that beast of yours."
"I take offense at that. Kitten's not a beast. She's all lady."
"That hulking thing is no kitten. Keep it inside your own cell."
"A cat goes where she wants, amigo. Is that seat taken?" He waved a hand, indicating the vast empty space to one side of Simon.
"Yes," Simon replied.
"I'll take this one, then." And with that, he plopped down on the opposite side.
Blackquill was by no means interested in company, and he puffed himself up and snarled in the most frightening way he could muster. "Are you aware that you are occupying space next to a cold-blooded butcher?"
But the man simply laughed. "Am I supposed to be scared of a man whose crime was butchering a helpless woman?"
Simon was stunned. The insinuation that Dr. Cykes was "helpless" infuriated him, as did the accusation; and he was totally blindsided by the fact that this complete stranger, about whom he knew very nearly nothing, was already familiar with his story.
"You ought to know," continued his neighbor, who was rolling up a pant leg to reveal a thermos that had been strapped to his calf, "that you're not fooling anyone with the tough guy act."
Blackquill's heart practically skipped a beat, but he decided to prove him wrong. Summoning up his best impersonation of the Evil Magistrate, he said, "Still your tongue."
"Caw all you want, fledgeling, but the fear is rolling off you so thick that I can smell it." He unscrewed his thermos and gave that a good whiff before knocking back the contents with such gusto that Blackquill couldn't help but be a bit horrified.
He wasn't much of a drinker himself. In fact, he'd only ever had alcohol once before, having split a bottle of sake with Aura and Dr. Cykes on the night of his 21st birthday. But after talking to this headache of a man, he felt as though he could use a stiff drink. Feeling rather sour about the whole affair, he asked, "Do you intend to share that?"
"Didn't anyone tell you it's only polite to ask a man's name before asking to partake of his illicit substances?"
"I already know your name. It's Armando."
"Oh? And what little birdie told you that?"
"The guard still calls for you in the morning. He doesn't seem to realize that you're capable of vaporizing into thin air."
"Ha...! Fair enough, Blackquill."
Armando offered his contraband and Simon—though he supposed it was simply 'Blackquill' now, as men in the clink were rarely afforded the dignity of first names—took a swig. He was immediately shocked by the heat and the taste, and drew the container away from his lips. "This... this is coffee!"
Armando tsked at the heathen before him. "That's no mere coffee. That's my Special Prison Blend #47."
"You said it was an illicit substance!"
"It is for me." He held out his hand and Simon returned the thermos. He breathed in the scent before taking another drink. "Or so say the angels in white. It's almost as if they don't want me to come back and visit them."
Angels in white... nurses? Had this man been in the infirmary ward the whole time? Then, he must be forbidden caffeine...
Simon Blackquill the prosecutor might have taken it away from him. But Blackquill the death row inmate saw no reason not to leave a man to his vices. What point was there in extending a life that was to be lived in a place like this?
"So tell me, which ones are yours?" Armando's question interrupted his morbid train of thought.
"What?"
"You were a prosecutor. Which of those," and here he paused to wave his arm toward the other inmates, "did you send up the river?"
Simon surveyed the yard. His career had been relatively short, but he'd done well for himself during his time in the office, and he did recognize a few faces. He pointed them out. "Those dodgy-looking fellows over there. The brute with the barbells. And the one with the polar bear. Those are the only ones I see. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You're a member of our very special cell block. Were you in law enforcement? A prosecutor, perhaps?"
"I was a prosecutor."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So who did you condemn to this place?" Blackquill was starting to get irritated.
"Oh, that." Armando took another deep snort of his coffee fumes before knocking back the last of his drink. "There was only one man I've damned to this hell."
"Meaning yourself?" Blackquill frowned. "Did you specialize in petty crimes, perhaps?"
"No. I simply didn't make any convictions." He returned the thermos to its place on his leg and, without so much as a hesitation, removed a fresh one from the opposite leg. "I have a 0% win rate - the lowest in LA history."
"That's not something to brag about."
"Makes for fewer enemies in here."
So that's why he seemed so smug. But something occurred to Blackquill, then; something that had puzzled him, but which he had not had the mental energy to give any deep thought. "Enemies or not, not one of them has said so much as a word to me."
"Of course they haven't."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, you're Debeste's man, aren't you?" His amusement was plain.
"I'm what?"
"Ha...! Didn't you know? Word on the grapevine is that Blaise Debeste is watching your back. Why do you think I'm drinking here?" He nodded his head to the nearest guard. "He's one of Debeste's; I figured if #47 and I came over here to spend some time together, he'd look the other way, and lo and behold, so he is."
Blackquill peered over at the guard. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that he's on more than just the state's payroll, amigo."
Everything he was saying made perfect sense, though it made Blackquill a little queasy to think that the only reason he'd been living in relative safety was due to the influence of the fallen Chief Prosecutor. He took a good look at the guard in question, carefully memorizing his features.
"I suppose I should not be surprised to learn that one of the guards is corrupt."
Armando burst into laughter, choking on a mouthful of coffee. "Aren't you precious! Listen, there's not a single one of them whose palm isn't greased one way or another."
"That's… that's preposterous! Surely something would have been done!"
"Oh, the new warden tried about half a year ago. Fired almost two thirds of the staff. All it did was diversify the market."
"Then you claim they take their orders from below rather than above?"
Armando nodded and indicated a couple of guards on the opposite end of the yard. "The old hands, the ones smart enough not to get caught, they all work for the Supplier, Sirhan Dogen."
"Sirhan Dogen..." He took a moment to remember where he'd heard that name. "The infamous assassin?" Yes, of course. Only a sham of a prosecutor would not know that name.
"I don't know about that, but he's the only one in this joint with eyesight worse than mine. He's the one to go to if you need something... well. Not if you need something."
"Because I'm 'Debeste's man,'" Blackquill replied sourly.
"That's right."
He scowled. "I never asked to be any such thing."
"Think of it like PE class and be grateful you got picked for somebody's team."
"And whose team are you on?"
Armando finished off his second thermos of coffee before answering. "Never join a team that would have me as a member; that's one of my rules."
Blackquill's irritation was palpable. He hadn't asked Debeste for anything, hadn't wanted anything, but there he was, unharmed due to the man's intervention. Was it worth tolerating the presence of a monster in order to ensure his own well-being?
He didn't want to think about it. He decided to change the subject, looking for another guard on the yard to point out. "Very well; if the other guards are 'owned' by the ex-Chief-Prosecutor or the Supplier, what about that man over there?"
Armando's expression darkened about as much as one with a glowing machine strapped to his face could. "White."
"White?"
"Redd White."
"I take it you're not a fan."
Armando opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a ragged cough. Rapidly, his coughing escalated to hacking. Blackquill started to raise his hand, intending to summon a guard for help, but Armando grabbed his arm and shook his head. In the end, Blackquill found himself sitting there in the prison yard, rubbing the back of a stranger.
He was starting to see what Armando meant about his 'tough guy act'. But he couldn't very well leave the man to suffer, even if he was a criminal.
Still. He never expected to make friends with the man, and indeed, that was not the moment in which they truly bonded. That would come days later, while their cell block was performing assigned work in the laundry room. Taka had flown off, as he disliked the smell of the industrial detergent, and Blackquill, as the block's fresh meat, had been assigned to the unenviable task of loading and unloading sheets from the massive industrial dryers; hot and sweaty work that did not at all get his mind off his troubles.
He'd begun watching and keeping track of the guards, and idly it occurred to him that the one on duty was the one that Armando had pointed out to him as one that worked for Debeste. Rolling that fact around in his mind, the inkling of a dark idea began to form. Blackquill picked up a basket of damp sheets and walked toward the supply closet — a place where he was not permitted to be — and he did so in intentional view of the guard, even going so far as to shoot him a nod and a wink.
The guard nodded back, and that was that. There he was, completely alone and unsupervised in a room with sturdy fixtures bolted to the ceiling and a basket full of makeshift rope. A numb determination had washed over him, and working as if possessed, he began twisting up one of the sheets into something more sturdy. It wasn't a tanto blade, and he had no second, but a warrior did his best with the situation at hand.
As he concentrated on this task, he heard the creak of the the door opening and shutting behind him. He whipped around to see Diego Armando, and the heat rose to his face as anger welled up within him.
"Turn around," he growled. "There is nothing to be seen here."
Armando took a slow, leisurely look down at the sheet in his hands. "You'll want to braid those, if you expect it to hold your weight with that thread count."
Blackquill's face glowed with embarrassment, but in a perverse way, he felt better than he had in days. In this new life of being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, and even how long he was allowed to live, this was the one thing he could take back. Death was the last bit of agency, as a living being, that he still possessed. He was ready to fight for it. "Have you come to stop me? I assure you, you will not be able to."
"No." Armando shrugged. "I'm here to watch."
This answer infuriated Blackquill, but he braided his makeshift noose with rough jerks of the sheets.
"There is one thing I'm wondering, though. Maybe you can clear it up for me before you finish up."
The shelves were held in place by thick rods, bolted to the ground, and Blackquill tested his weight against one. It seemed like it should hold. "What are you jabbering about?"
"You're in on first degree murder, but there was another crime that day: A bombing. You were suspected for that one, but not convicted. Why was that?"
Simon threw his noose up on the top shelf with a wet slap. "Surely an ex-prosecutor can figure that much out. There was no evidence linking me to that crime, nor any motive that could be determined, and I stalwartly denied the accusation. As I had already confessed to the other crime, however, there was no need to press me on the bombing. The murder alone was enough to warrant the maximum punishment."
"No evidence, no motive, no confession. Is it just me, or are you saying you didn't do it?"
"Does it matter?" He began tying the knot. "As I said, they already had sufficient evidence to send me to my grave."
"Certainly, certainly. But who's going to send the bomber to his?"
That was a good question, and Blackquill paused in his grim work to contemplate it. There was no doubt in his mind that the bombing had been the work of the phantom, but if Interpol believed that the phantom was his invention to cover up his own crimes, as it currently seemed to, then the likelihood that they'd still be pursuing him wasn't high. Once again, true to his name, the spy would disappear into the mist.
"Now, I only know what I read in the papers," continued Armando, casually leaning against the opposite shelf, "but it seems like that bombing is where your troubles started."
"If there is a point to your rambling, you ought to hurry and get to it."
"You're on a one-way trip to hell. I won't blame you if you take the express route." He nodded to the noose. "But if it were me, I wouldn't pack my bags until I had someone to drag along with me."
From the beginning, Blackquill had blamed himself for the tragedy that had happened on that day. If only he'd gotten to Athena sooner. If only he'd kept an eye on her in the first place. If only he had been somewhat less enthusiastic about swordplay in front of such a young child…
But in truth, what happened that dark day was not truly his fault, was it? At least not entirely. Nor was it Athena's, even if she had been the one to—
But no. She could not be blamed. There was one person at the Space Center that day who catalyzed the entire mess. And if Interpol was not pursuing him, then that person became someone that he was uniquely capable of finding. Simon Blackquill could not save himself, could no longer do anything for Aura or Athena, but he could find that phantom. And if no one else would, then maybe there was still some purpose for him after all.
He pulled down his sheet. The spite had drained out of him; he only felt awkward and sheepish. Not even a month in the clink, and he had already lost his sense of reason.
"By the way," Armando cut into his train of thought. "Do you realize that the guard thinks we're making sweet love in here?"
"What?"
"Shall I go out first? Far be it from me to blow your cover."
"S-silence!" he sputtered, but the man simply laughed and left.
Simon spent a long time in that room, thinking over what nearly was and what could have been. But when he came out, it was with a newfound determination… and a friend for life, however short that might be.
————————
Athena closed the Mood Matrix, biting on her lip. "Simon, I…"
"It was a long time ago," he replied uncomfortably. "Since then, I have found many, many things to live for. Even in the clink… as my execution date grew nearer, all I could think was that I had all too many."
The subject was not becoming any less awkward. He decided to change it.
"I owe a great deal to Diego. In those early days, it was he who taught me the most valuable things about the people around me and the unspoken rules of the clink."
"Was he all right? It sounded like he was really sick…"
"His health has not improved, but he has yet to stand toe-to-toe with the Reaper." Much to his own chagrin, Blackquill was sure. "I've kept up correspondence with him for the past few years."
"You mean he's out of jail?" Athena lit up. "Have you gone to visit him yet? Can I come?"
Now there was only the last thing he needed. "I don't think—"
"Great! Just let me know when you're going. By the way, your place is closer than mine!" She changed the subject swiftly and without segue, before any further argument could be had. "Why don't I come over? We can stay up late watching movies and pigging out, like we used to do when I was a kid."
"Hmph. Do I have any choice in the matter?"
"Ha! Like you could even pretend to hide the joy in your voice."
He didn't realize it himself until Athena pointed it out, but she was completely correct. He did feel joy.
After dinner, Simon had insisted on accompanying Athena home. She'd teased him about being overprotective, but the truth was that he simply didn't want to return alone to his empty new apartment. He wondered if it would be appropriate to invite her to come over, to stay up late watching Jack Hammer movies and eating junk food, the way they did back when he would babysit her.
"But?"
"But you did have friends, didn't you? The way you talk about the other convicts sometimes…"
"Trust is a rare and precious thing in the clink. I had many allies and acquaintances, but few friends."
"Meaning you did have some."
"Yes," he conceded.
"So… you should tell me about that! I don't just want to hear about the things that are bad!"
Or rather, she wanted to hear that it wasn't all bad. But then, he couldn't blame her, and indeed it hadn't all been terrible. It was not long after arriving that he made his first (human) friend...
Blackquill spent the next few days in a sort of fugue state, barely registering the world around him. Later on he would hardly remember anything from that time, but amidst the blur of new faces and the tedium of his new prison routine Taka stood out in sharp relief.
His friend was not so well-trained then and would follow Simon around relentlessly, constantly demanding food and attention. Not that Simon minded; tending to Taka's needs was far more satisfying than carrying out the mindless chores he was assigned, and the bird's aggression towards perceived threats gave him an excuse to avoid human contact. Out in the yard, while the other prisoners exercised or socialized, Blackquill sat off to the side, watching Taka fly above or feeding him small scraps of meat he'd smuggled from his own lunch. That day it was a piece of bologna, which Taka bit at a couple of times and then let fall to the ground, staring up at Simon with piercing offense.
"Don't look at me. I agree with you," said Simon, and beckoned the hawk onto his knee for petting. For awhile, he simply murmured sweet nothings to the bird, but suddenly, he found himself saying, "You're the last being in this world that still depends on me. I wonder, should I thank you or resent you?"
"The fledgling sings a sad song."
Blackquill hadn't even noticed the man approaching. Outside of Debeste, the other convicts tended to avoid him, and he supposed it was for that reason that he'd let his guard down. Still, he felt ashamed; hadn't Dr. Cykes taught him better than that? He had not forgotten all of her lessons, however, and he took a moment to size up the stranger, careful to present an air of indifference. From the look of him, the man was in poor health; far too thin, a bit shaky, and wearing a massive visor that likely didn't afford him much in the way of eyesight.
Deeming him not a physical threat, Simon snorted and went back to preening his bird. "Begone. My companion and I are busy."
The other prisoner, however, did not miss a beat. "Is that any way to greet your neighbor?"
Simon didn't look up again, but he didn't need to; the strands of orange cat fur were obvious on the man's uniform. "Hmph. So you're the one who lives in that cell? I thought you'd been devoured by that beast of yours."
"I take offense at that. Kitten's not a beast. She's all lady."
"That hulking thing is no kitten. Keep it inside your own cell."
"A cat goes where she wants, amigo. Is that seat taken?" He waved a hand, indicating the vast empty space to one side of Simon.
"Yes," Simon replied.
"I'll take this one, then." And with that, he plopped down on the opposite side.
Blackquill was by no means interested in company, and he puffed himself up and snarled in the most frightening way he could muster. "Are you aware that you are occupying space next to a cold-blooded butcher?"
But the man simply laughed. "Am I supposed to be scared of a man whose crime was butchering a helpless woman?"
Simon was stunned. The insinuation that Dr. Cykes was "helpless" infuriated him, as did the accusation; and he was totally blindsided by the fact that this complete stranger, about whom he knew very nearly nothing, was already familiar with his story.
"You ought to know," continued his neighbor, who was rolling up a pant leg to reveal a thermos that had been strapped to his calf, "that you're not fooling anyone with the tough guy act."
Blackquill's heart practically skipped a beat, but he decided to prove him wrong. Summoning up his best impersonation of the Evil Magistrate, he said, "Still your tongue."
"Caw all you want, fledgeling, but the fear is rolling off you so thick that I can smell it." He unscrewed his thermos and gave that a good whiff before knocking back the contents with such gusto that Blackquill couldn't help but be a bit horrified.
He wasn't much of a drinker himself. In fact, he'd only ever had alcohol once before, having split a bottle of sake with Aura and Dr. Cykes on the night of his 21st birthday. But after talking to this headache of a man, he felt as though he could use a stiff drink. Feeling rather sour about the whole affair, he asked, "Do you intend to share that?"
"Didn't anyone tell you it's only polite to ask a man's name before asking to partake of his illicit substances?"
"I already know your name. It's Armando."
"Oh? And what little birdie told you that?"
"The guard still calls for you in the morning. He doesn't seem to realize that you're capable of vaporizing into thin air."
"Ha...! Fair enough, Blackquill."
Armando offered his contraband and Simon—though he supposed it was simply 'Blackquill' now, as men in the clink were rarely afforded the dignity of first names—took a swig. He was immediately shocked by the heat and the taste, and drew the container away from his lips. "This... this is coffee!"
Armando tsked at the heathen before him. "That's no mere coffee. That's my Special Prison Blend #47."
"You said it was an illicit substance!"
"It is for me." He held out his hand and Simon returned the thermos. He breathed in the scent before taking another drink. "Or so say the angels in white. It's almost as if they don't want me to come back and visit them."
Angels in white... nurses? Had this man been in the infirmary ward the whole time? Then, he must be forbidden caffeine...
Simon Blackquill the prosecutor might have taken it away from him. But Blackquill the death row inmate saw no reason not to leave a man to his vices. What point was there in extending a life that was to be lived in a place like this?
"So tell me, which ones are yours?" Armando's question interrupted his morbid train of thought.
"What?"
"You were a prosecutor. Which of those," and here he paused to wave his arm toward the other inmates, "did you send up the river?"
Simon surveyed the yard. His career had been relatively short, but he'd done well for himself during his time in the office, and he did recognize a few faces. He pointed them out. "Those dodgy-looking fellows over there. The brute with the barbells. And the one with the polar bear. Those are the only ones I see. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You're a member of our very special cell block. Were you in law enforcement? A prosecutor, perhaps?"
"I was a prosecutor."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So who did you condemn to this place?" Blackquill was starting to get irritated.
"Oh, that." Armando took another deep snort of his coffee fumes before knocking back the last of his drink. "There was only one man I've damned to this hell."
"Meaning yourself?" Blackquill frowned. "Did you specialize in petty crimes, perhaps?"
"No. I simply didn't make any convictions." He returned the thermos to its place on his leg and, without so much as a hesitation, removed a fresh one from the opposite leg. "I have a 0% win rate - the lowest in LA history."
"That's not something to brag about."
"Makes for fewer enemies in here."
So that's why he seemed so smug. But something occurred to Blackquill, then; something that had puzzled him, but which he had not had the mental energy to give any deep thought. "Enemies or not, not one of them has said so much as a word to me."
"Of course they haven't."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, you're Debeste's man, aren't you?" His amusement was plain.
"I'm what?"
"Ha...! Didn't you know? Word on the grapevine is that Blaise Debeste is watching your back. Why do you think I'm drinking here?" He nodded his head to the nearest guard. "He's one of Debeste's; I figured if #47 and I came over here to spend some time together, he'd look the other way, and lo and behold, so he is."
Blackquill peered over at the guard. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that he's on more than just the state's payroll, amigo."
Everything he was saying made perfect sense, though it made Blackquill a little queasy to think that the only reason he'd been living in relative safety was due to the influence of the fallen Chief Prosecutor. He took a good look at the guard in question, carefully memorizing his features.
"I suppose I should not be surprised to learn that one of the guards is corrupt."
Armando burst into laughter, choking on a mouthful of coffee. "Aren't you precious! Listen, there's not a single one of them whose palm isn't greased one way or another."
"That's… that's preposterous! Surely something would have been done!"
"Oh, the new warden tried about half a year ago. Fired almost two thirds of the staff. All it did was diversify the market."
"Then you claim they take their orders from below rather than above?"
Armando nodded and indicated a couple of guards on the opposite end of the yard. "The old hands, the ones smart enough not to get caught, they all work for the Supplier, Sirhan Dogen."
"Sirhan Dogen..." He took a moment to remember where he'd heard that name. "The infamous assassin?" Yes, of course. Only a sham of a prosecutor would not know that name.
"I don't know about that, but he's the only one in this joint with eyesight worse than mine. He's the one to go to if you need something... well. Not if you need something."
"Because I'm 'Debeste's man,'" Blackquill replied sourly.
"That's right."
He scowled. "I never asked to be any such thing."
"Think of it like PE class and be grateful you got picked for somebody's team."
"And whose team are you on?"
Armando finished off his second thermos of coffee before answering. "Never join a team that would have me as a member; that's one of my rules."
Blackquill's irritation was palpable. He hadn't asked Debeste for anything, hadn't wanted anything, but there he was, unharmed due to the man's intervention. Was it worth tolerating the presence of a monster in order to ensure his own well-being?
He didn't want to think about it. He decided to change the subject, looking for another guard on the yard to point out. "Very well; if the other guards are 'owned' by the ex-Chief-Prosecutor or the Supplier, what about that man over there?"
Armando's expression darkened about as much as one with a glowing machine strapped to his face could. "White."
"White?"
"Redd White."
"I take it you're not a fan."
Armando opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a ragged cough. Rapidly, his coughing escalated to hacking. Blackquill started to raise his hand, intending to summon a guard for help, but Armando grabbed his arm and shook his head. In the end, Blackquill found himself sitting there in the prison yard, rubbing the back of a stranger.
He was starting to see what Armando meant about his 'tough guy act'. But he couldn't very well leave the man to suffer, even if he was a criminal.
Still. He never expected to make friends with the man, and indeed, that was not the moment in which they truly bonded. That would come days later, while their cell block was performing assigned work in the laundry room. Taka had flown off, as he disliked the smell of the industrial detergent, and Blackquill, as the block's fresh meat, had been assigned to the unenviable task of loading and unloading sheets from the massive industrial dryers; hot and sweaty work that did not at all get his mind off his troubles.
He'd begun watching and keeping track of the guards, and idly it occurred to him that the one on duty was the one that Armando had pointed out to him as one that worked for Debeste. Rolling that fact around in his mind, the inkling of a dark idea began to form. Blackquill picked up a basket of damp sheets and walked toward the supply closet — a place where he was not permitted to be — and he did so in intentional view of the guard, even going so far as to shoot him a nod and a wink.
The guard nodded back, and that was that. There he was, completely alone and unsupervised in a room with sturdy fixtures bolted to the ceiling and a basket full of makeshift rope. A numb determination had washed over him, and working as if possessed, he began twisting up one of the sheets into something more sturdy. It wasn't a tanto blade, and he had no second, but a warrior did his best with the situation at hand.
As he concentrated on this task, he heard the creak of the the door opening and shutting behind him. He whipped around to see Diego Armando, and the heat rose to his face as anger welled up within him.
"Turn around," he growled. "There is nothing to be seen here."
Armando took a slow, leisurely look down at the sheet in his hands. "You'll want to braid those, if you expect it to hold your weight with that thread count."
Blackquill's face glowed with embarrassment, but in a perverse way, he felt better than he had in days. In this new life of being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, and even how long he was allowed to live, this was the one thing he could take back. Death was the last bit of agency, as a living being, that he still possessed. He was ready to fight for it. "Have you come to stop me? I assure you, you will not be able to."
"No." Armando shrugged. "I'm here to watch."
This answer infuriated Blackquill, but he braided his makeshift noose with rough jerks of the sheets.
"There is one thing I'm wondering, though. Maybe you can clear it up for me before you finish up."
The shelves were held in place by thick rods, bolted to the ground, and Blackquill tested his weight against one. It seemed like it should hold. "What are you jabbering about?"
"You're in on first degree murder, but there was another crime that day: A bombing. You were suspected for that one, but not convicted. Why was that?"
Simon threw his noose up on the top shelf with a wet slap. "Surely an ex-prosecutor can figure that much out. There was no evidence linking me to that crime, nor any motive that could be determined, and I stalwartly denied the accusation. As I had already confessed to the other crime, however, there was no need to press me on the bombing. The murder alone was enough to warrant the maximum punishment."
"No evidence, no motive, no confession. Is it just me, or are you saying you didn't do it?"
"Does it matter?" He began tying the knot. "As I said, they already had sufficient evidence to send me to my grave."
"Certainly, certainly. But who's going to send the bomber to his?"
That was a good question, and Blackquill paused in his grim work to contemplate it. There was no doubt in his mind that the bombing had been the work of the phantom, but if Interpol believed that the phantom was his invention to cover up his own crimes, as it currently seemed to, then the likelihood that they'd still be pursuing him wasn't high. Once again, true to his name, the spy would disappear into the mist.
"Now, I only know what I read in the papers," continued Armando, casually leaning against the opposite shelf, "but it seems like that bombing is where your troubles started."
"If there is a point to your rambling, you ought to hurry and get to it."
"You're on a one-way trip to hell. I won't blame you if you take the express route." He nodded to the noose. "But if it were me, I wouldn't pack my bags until I had someone to drag along with me."
From the beginning, Blackquill had blamed himself for the tragedy that had happened on that day. If only he'd gotten to Athena sooner. If only he'd kept an eye on her in the first place. If only he had been somewhat less enthusiastic about swordplay in front of such a young child…
But in truth, what happened that dark day was not truly his fault, was it? At least not entirely. Nor was it Athena's, even if she had been the one to—
But no. She could not be blamed. There was one person at the Space Center that day who catalyzed the entire mess. And if Interpol was not pursuing him, then that person became someone that he was uniquely capable of finding. Simon Blackquill could not save himself, could no longer do anything for Aura or Athena, but he could find that phantom. And if no one else would, then maybe there was still some purpose for him after all.
He pulled down his sheet. The spite had drained out of him; he only felt awkward and sheepish. Not even a month in the clink, and he had already lost his sense of reason.
"By the way," Armando cut into his train of thought. "Do you realize that the guard thinks we're making sweet love in here?"
"What?"
"Shall I go out first? Far be it from me to blow your cover."
"S-silence!" he sputtered, but the man simply laughed and left.
Simon spent a long time in that room, thinking over what nearly was and what could have been. But when he came out, it was with a newfound determination… and a friend for life, however short that might be.
Athena closed the Mood Matrix, biting on her lip. "Simon, I…"
"It was a long time ago," he replied uncomfortably. "Since then, I have found many, many things to live for. Even in the clink… as my execution date grew nearer, all I could think was that I had all too many."
The subject was not becoming any less awkward. He decided to change it.
"I owe a great deal to Diego. In those early days, it was he who taught me the most valuable things about the people around me and the unspoken rules of the clink."
"Was he all right? It sounded like he was really sick…"
"His health has not improved, but he has yet to stand toe-to-toe with the Reaper." Much to his own chagrin, Blackquill was sure. "I've kept up correspondence with him for the past few years."
"You mean he's out of jail?" Athena lit up. "Have you gone to visit him yet? Can I come?"
Now there was only the last thing he needed. "I don't think—"
"Great! Just let me know when you're going. By the way, your place is closer than mine!" She changed the subject swiftly and without segue, before any further argument could be had. "Why don't I come over? We can stay up late watching movies and pigging out, like we used to do when I was a kid."
"Hmph. Do I have any choice in the matter?"
"Ha! Like you could even pretend to hide the joy in your voice."
He didn't realize it himself until Athena pointed it out, but she was completely correct. He did feel joy.